New Here
by ZellieXOXO
Summary: Clove Fuhrman lives a normal life in a normal town-before she and her parents move to Panem. Soon, with the help of Cato Ludwig, a elusive new crush, she has created a dangerous new identity for herself. But these things change her in ways she never could have expected.
1. Chapter 1

There's something they aren't telling me. I know them well enough.

When they have a secret, Mom wrings her hands and bites her lip. Dad laughs at everything and talks way too loud. That's been my life for the last few days.

I walk into the living room and flop onto the couch. They break their huddle. "Alright. What's the secret?" I ask. Mom gives a weak smile that is too easy to see through. "Clover, honey, what are you talking about?"

I have to take a deep breath to keep from yelling at them—but that's not something that their Perfect Little Clover would do. "Mom, I know you two are hiding something. Would you please tell me what it is?"

I almost expect Mom to say, _Well, because you said please,_ but she just exchanges a nervous glance with Dad. "Clover—we're—we're moving."

Once I get over the initial shock, I realize that moving might not be so bad. I could go someplace where I'm not Clove Fuhrman, goody-two-shoes. I could make a new identity for myself.

"Okay, where to?" I ask. Mom n' Dad seem surprised at my mild reaction. "Well, honey…before we tell you, you need to know that we love you very much." Uh-oh. This can't be good. "The only reason we're doing this is because your father got a very good job there with very good pay."

"Okay…so, where are we going?"

Mom n' Dad give each other The Look. "We're moving to—to Panem. Have you—"

"P-Panem! Are you freaking _kidding me_! I've heard stuff about that place. Like how the government is so controlling that no one knows what really goes on there. But haven't you heard the rumors? How they torture kids for fun? Why the _hell_ would we move there!"

Mom n' Dad sit dumbstruck for a minute. They're not used to hearing words like that come out of my mouth.

"Well, Clover, calm down! Of course those rumors aren't true. We've done research. And remember that business trip I took last month? I went to Panem, for the job interview. It was beautiful and everyone was so nice. They speak English, you know."

_Oh, good to know. I thought they spoke Panish._ I snicker at my own dumb joke.

In the next moment, I make a split-second decision. To keep their Perfect Little Clover alive. It might serve me well in Panem. (I'm not going to fight the move—once Mom n' Dad make up their minds, there is NO NEGOTIATION.)

So, six days later, I'm saying goodbye to the house I've lived in my entire life. Before we left, I'd emptied out the space under the loose floorboard in my room, the space where I keep my secrets. On the underside of the board I'd written my name and the date, so maybe someone, someday, will find the little piece of me.

Mom n' Dad had to hire a private jet to take us to Panem, because no commercial airlines fly there. _Don't you think that's a little creepy? _I'd asked them earlier, in a half-hearted attempt to get some reconsideration. But they had just waved me off, saying it's a little exotic, that's all.

I'm not complaining about the jet, though. It's very cushy, with leather seats and TVs and huge windows. I don't know how they can afford it. Maybe Dad got a cash advance on his new job or something.

The pilot comes out, and he's this big guy with a round, pink face and no hair. He shakes my parents' hands and waves to me. Mom gestures for me to come over, but I pretend not to see her. Instead, I stare out the window and think about what little info I found on Panem.

They have twelve "districts" instead of states, and the Capitol. President Snow and all the richies live in the Capitol, and District 1 and 2 aren't so bad off either. But the districts seem to get poorer as the numbers get higher, until District 12, which is poor-poor-poor. Thankfully, we're moving to a fairly nice place in District 2.

That's all okay, I guess, but I found some creepier stuff, too. There's this rumor that they hold something called the Hunger Games, where a guy and a girl from each district get sent to an arena and battle to the death, until there's just one champion. That seriously freaked me out, but I figure that's just a rumor. It has to be. I mean, Mom and Dad would have known if that was true. We wouldn't be moving there if it was true.

That's what I keep telling myself.


	2. Chapter 2

I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have, because I wake to my mother shaking my shoulder. "We're here, Clover," she says wearily. I turn to the window and observe my new home.

We seem to have landed in the middle of a field. _God, don't they even have airports? _I think indignantly. I stand up and stretch. I must have been asleep for hours. How long was the flight anyway?

I'm about to ask when Mom comes back over and starts to drag me off the jet. "I'm coming, I'm coming!" I say hoarsely. She lets go of my elbow and tells me to follow Dad.

We walk down the steps to a surreally green field. It's so green I have to squint when I look at it, because it seems to go on forever. Directly in front of us is a man in a creepy white uniform standing in front of a weird car—it's all round and painted a strange shade of pink.

The man introduces himself as Vernus, a head Peacekeeper for the Immigration Department. I read about Peacekeepers, too—they're kind of like cops.

Vernus ushers us into the car. "Your luggage will be transported directly to your new living establishment," he says as we begin to drive. _Living establishment? This place is already weird,_ I think to myself.

We drive for at least an hour in silence (well, my parents are chattering away, asking poor Vernus a billion questions, but I tune it out) before I see a city in the distance. A distinctive skyline of sleek, glossy buildings emerges. We drive around the outskirts, and the buildings get dingier and dingier, until we're in a cute little neighborhood of houses that almost look like the houses back home.

Almost.

Finally, Vernus stops the car and we get out. Across the street, there's a tiny, one-story flat, and another man in a Peacekeeper suit is standing at the door with our suitcases.

"I am Fenton Trindle." He shakes hands with my father. "Mr. Fuhrman, you will come to City Hall tomorrow morning at eight o'clock to begin your work." And with that, Fenton drops the house keys into Dad's hands and drives off with Vernus. We all stand there for a second, and then Dad unlocks the front door and we step inside our new house.

I move all my boxes to a tiny room upstairs, but I don't feel like unpacking them. I search around the room for a while, looking for a new secret hiding place, and finally find a hole in the wall behind a piece of peeled-off paint in the closet. I stuff my diary and all the good-bye letters from my friends inside, then head downstairs. Mom n' Dad are busy trying to find one object or another, searching through all the boxes, so I decide to go for a walk and explore a little.

I'm refreshed from my nap on the jet, and the crisp evening air sparks my senses. I turn right and go towards the big, rich houses, curious. I wind around three- or four-story homes, looking up into the windows, wondering what it would be like to be so rich that you wouldn't have to move to a different country just for a job with good pay.

As I wonder this I stare up into the windows of an especially big house, with cream paint and gold trim. It's gorgeous, and I'm so entranced that I bump right into somebody who just walked out of its front door.

"Oh—oh, sorry," I say, looking up into a pair of electric blue eyes. I take a step back to observe the whole figure.

He's a boy about my age, with blonde hair and big muscles. He's pretty hot—back home, he'd be a star quarter back with Stella Green for his girlfriend. But in Panem…I don't know.

I realize that I've been staring at his biceps. I pull back to reality and look at his smirking face again. _Be careful Clove,_ I tell my self. _He's the kind of guy that Perfect Little Clover would be terrified of._ But then I remember—I don't have to be Perfect Little Clover in Panem.

So I cross my arms and take another step back, raising my eyebrows. He gives a wicked grin. "You're new here?"

"Yeah."

"Did you move into the Fitlan place?"

What do I say? I don't know who the Fitlans are or where their house is. My confusion must be showing on my face, because he smirks again and says, "Apparently not. I didn't think you were Victor's Village material. Not in _that._" He gives my worn coat a disdainful glance before turning back to his golden house.

"You know, you might not be so mean if you didn't have to walk a block to get from your mailbox to your front door. Must get kind of annoying," I call after him, desperate to get the last word.

He gives me one last glance and says, "At least I have a front door."


	3. Chapter 3

It's been two days since my encounter with Mr. Rich Bitch, and I'm still seething. Nothing I said got him even a little bit annoyed. I _hate _that type of person. They drive me insane!

"Clover, I'm going to work with your father today. We need to…discuss some things with his boss," called my mother from downstairs.

Usually, I'd be curious about how Mom said "discuss," but today I'm too distracted. I yell my consent and wait till they're gone to leave the house. I make sure to wear the same, threadbare coat that I had the last time, to show this guy that he isn't the man. I don't know what I'm going to say, but I need to show that bastard up. And, this time, I have a reason.

Last night, my parents told me that I had to start at the Academy next week. I did some research, and I found that this guy's name is Cato Ludwig. He goes to the same Academy, so he'll be able to show me around. Lucky Cato.

By the time I reach his golden house, it's almost noon. He should be up. I use the door knocker shaped like a lion's head to knock.

A pretty blonde girl who looks like she's about twelve answers. She looks me up and down, and then says, "Who are you?"

"I—I'm Clove," I say. She gives me a blank expression. "Sorry, we don't do handouts," she says scornfully, starting to close the door on me. What is it with this family and thinking I'm homeless? I grab the door and pull it back open, and she seems surprised at my strength. I use this opportunity to practice my smirk.

"I'm not _homeless,_ you idiot," I say, and I see her cheeks go pink underneath her caked-on makeup. "And I'm here to see Cato."

She nods and leaves without a word. I assume that she's getting him, but shouldn't she have asked me to come in? Maybe things are different here in Panem. Or maybe she doesn't want my disgustingness rumpling her perfect house.

Eventually, Cato comes to the door, but he doesn't have the courtesy to invite me in, either. He just stands there, eyebrows raised higher than I thought was possible. It makes him look like an old man, and I snicker. That just makes him raise his eyebrows higher. I recover, and stick out my hand. "I'm Clove. I'm going to go to the same school as you, and my parents say you need to show me around."

He observes my hand, but makes no effort to shake it. "You must have made a mistake. I don't go to school."

I frown, pulling back my hand. "Yes you do. You're Cato Ludwig, right? You go to the Academy near here."

He breaks into an incredulous smile. "Yeah, the _Academy._ To train for the Games." He looks me up and down, like the girl had. "Don't tell me you're starting there?"

I frown again. This doesn't make sense. Training? For "the Games"? What _is_ the Academy, anyway?

Cato sees my confusion and smirks. "Come on in, little girl."

I grit my teeth. Is it my fault I'm barely five feet tall? No. No, no, no.

But I follow, needing to know. Besides, what's the worst that could happen? (Okay, so some pretty ugly stuff _could _happen. But…oh, well.)

I stop in my tracks as soon as I step through the front door. This is the biggest space I've ever seen. The ceilings are at least twenty feet above me, and there's a gigantic chandelier hanging down. On the right wall, there's an opening to what looks like the king's dining hall, and to the left there are three slightly smaller closed doors. But directly in front of me, there's the most impressive thing.

A _huge_ glass spiral staircase goes up past the ceiling. And when I say _huge_, I mean bigger-than-you-thought-existed huge. And it's _glass._ So when you're taking a trip to the bathroom, you can look down and see the floor forty feet beneath you.

I realize it's been a while since I moved, and that I've just been staring around at what Cato must see every day. I glance over at him, embarrassed, but he's just looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

"What?" I ask.

Cato shakes his head and reverts back to his trademark smirk. "Nothing. And…are you sure you're not homeless? You're looking at this place like it's the only house you've ever seen."

I snort. "_This_ is not a normal house, Cato. _This_ is a mansion." I gaze around a little more, for effect, before turning back to him. "So, why did you invite me in here?"

Before he can answer, the blonde girl who answered the door before comes halfway down the staircase and appears to be talking into some kind of phone.

"That's right, Glimmer. He's got a girl right here in front of me. She's ugly, though. I don't think you have much to worry about, but I thought you should know. Oh, sure. Uh-huh. Here he is." She waves the phone thing around and says, "Cato, Glimmer's on. And she's not too happy!"

Cato bounds up the stairs and snatches the phone from the blondie. She giggles and rushes back upstairs. "Fuck you, Brittnei!" He calls after her. Then he puts the phone to his head and…and seems to switch personalities or something. Suddenly, he's all smooth and obedient. "Hey, Glims." He's purring now. "Whatever stuff Britt told you, it's not true. There's no girl in here."

Okay, _that_ hurts. Even if Cato is an arrogant jerk, couldn't he at least acknowledge my presence to this girl?

I decide that if he can't admit it, then my presence isn't worth it to him. I start to back out of his huge house, but he shakes his head and holds up a finger, saying _wait_. I'm about to obey, when he says, "Of course I can't wait for you to visit. That first night you're here…"

I puke a little in my mouth and leave before I have to hear any more.

When I get home, no one's there. _Huh._ _I thought Mom would be back by now._ I shrug to myself and go up to my room to take a nap.

When I wake up, it's dark outside. I check all over the house, but Mom n' Dad aren't here. _Where the hell are they?_ I'm about to go back to bed when I hear a knock on the door. _Oh. There they are._

I walk down the stairs and unlock the door, pulling it open. "Hey! There you—"

But my parents aren't standing in front of me. Instead, there's a different man and woman. Wearing those strange white uniforms—what are they called?—oh yes. Peacekeepers.

I give a small wave. "What's the matter?"

The woman sighs. "Are you Clove Fuhrman?"

I nod.

She sighs again and takes a deep breath. "Your parents are dead."


	4. Chapter 4

The next hour goes by without my presence. I mean, sure my body is there, sitting on the couch with the Peacekeepers, nodding at everything they say. But my mind is elsewhere—in a land of grief deeper than anything I'd ever experienced. I feel horrible. Horrible, soul-sucking pain surrounds me, and I can't escape.

I must have been half-asleep the whole time, because when I finally come to my senses, it's to the shrill noise of a doorbell. I cover my ears and wait for the sound to stop. The Peacekeepers have left, and I'm all alone in the house.

All alone in the world.

Then the tragedy of it all hits me again and I fall back into the darkness.

When I wake again, it's dark and silent. At first I think I'm in another twisted dream, but it's all so sharp and in focus. I muster all my strength and stand from the couch, but getting up the stairs seems like climbing Mount Everest right now. So I flop back down.

But I can't go back to the terrible dreamland I've been in. I'm stuck between two worlds, both of them filled with misery and grief. So I do the only thing I know how to do.

Throw.

I was a softball pitcher back in Normalville. I was _the_ softball pitcher. I mean, I don't want to brag, but at fourteen years old, colleges were asking about me. I was pretty kick-ass. And now, of course we have no balls, so in my slightly delirious state I grab something random.

Once I get outside and look at my bleeding hand, I realize what that thing is.

A knife.

I laugh at myself, and I hear it come out crazed and scratchy. I sound—I sound insane. But I don't have even the slightest desire to calm down, go back inside and put the knife away. I barely even feel it digging into my flesh. So instead I turn around and face the wide, blank wall of my house. I smack my hand against it, making a bloody handprint. My target.

I laugh again, at the insanity of it all. I walk backwards and throw. A perfect bull's-eye.

I don't know how many times I do this, or when my psychotic laughter turns to hysterical tears. I just keep throwing that one knife, walking up to pull it out of the wood. Backing up and throwing again. Eventually, I collapse on the lawn, racked with sobs. All the fight leaves me, and something else replaces it. Something much, much worse. Something dangerous.

The sun wakes me up, not my mother. But I don't have one of those moments like in books where "it all comes rushing back to me." It's not like that. There's just a cold, icy lump in the pit of my stomach. And I have a headache, and my hand burns.

I look up and see the knife wedged into the wall, right in the palm of my bloody handprint. I remember that, too. I look down at the hand that the print came from, and gasp. It's covered in blood, and, I realize, so is my arm. And my clothes. I'm wearing a loose, once-white t-shirt from my favorite coffee place back home. Now it's covered in dry blood.

I've heard stories about people who go through trauma like—like—having their parents die, how they wallow in misery and self-pity until they starve to death. And, right there, I decide that's not going to be me. I'm not going to be just another warning story on the news. So I push myself up and grab the knife out of the wall with my good hand. I head inside, realizing that the back door was open all night. I never closed it. I had been too drunk with sadness or—whatever it was that had taken me over last night. I shivered at the memory, knowing that it wasn't completely gone.

I walk upstairs and get into the shower. I end up sitting on the bottom, letting the water pelt me, crying my eyes out. Apparently, it's harder than I thought to continue life once both your parents die. But then, what was I expecting? Total normalcy?

When I eventually make it out of the shower and dress myself, all I want to do is collapse on my bed and sleep. But I know that I can't. So instead, I practically fall down the stairs and into the kitchen. Throwing up seems more likely than eating at the moment, but I force down one piece of bread before I do puke. I don't trust myself to go near the toaster, or the stove, or anything hot after last night, after doing this to my hand.

I move back into the living room and sit on the couch, watching the electronic clock. _1:43._ The numbers become so engraved into my brain that I flinch when it changes. _1:44._

I get lost in the numbers, in their simple and straight-forward world. Until the doorbell rings again, and I practically jump out of my skin. _3:23._ Oh my god, that's scary. I lost myself for almost two whole hours.

I want to ignore the ringing, but I force myself to get up and pull the door open. I cringe at the light of day, and squint to make out the figure in front of me.

Suddenly, my heart jumps into my throat. "Dad!" I exclaim, leaping to squeeze him. It was all just a bad dream. He had to stay overnight at work, and Mom's right behind him. It was all a bad dream! It was all a bad dream. It was all—

A voice interrupts my thoughts. "Whoa, there, little girl. I know I'm hot, but…I'm also taken."

I pull back and look up into electric blue eyes.

Oh.

I don't even want to think about what just happened. If I did, I'm sure I'd end up sobbing on the ground, possibly over Cato's stabbed body. Instead, I start to back up into the house. "Sorry. I thought you were someone else," I mutter, closing the door. Cato puts his foot in the way. "Look, Clove. That's your name, right? I just came to apologize for…yesterday."

I think back. Yesterday? Was that really _yesterday_? When I was annoyed because this jerk didn't tell his girlfriend about me?

I pull out the ol' lying machine. I've been told that I'm pretty good at it. I put on a smile that I hope doesn't look to garishly fake, and say, "It's okay, Cato. No worries."

He doesn't quite seem to believe it, but accepts it anyway. "Okay, good. Also, if you still want me to explain how things work around here, I can."

He peeks around me and hesitantly adds, "If this dive can fit two people."

I cringe. That hurt. I want to punch him—no, I want to stab him. _He doesn't know, Clove. He doesn't know._ The voice-of-reason warning bells go off in my head, but I ignore them and take a deep breath.

"Now's not really a good time," I say, cursing myself for letting my voice break at the end. I can feel the tears coming and I can't stop them. Cato opens his mouth, but I shut the door just as the tears start pouring.

_God, I hope he didn't see that._

**Twist! Clove gone crazy? We'll see... Zellie XOXO**


	5. Chapter 5

It's been almost a month since my parents died, and I've learned to control myself better. Sometimes, though, I can't stop, and that's what I painted the target on the side of the house for.

Only the center has knife marks.

The Academy starts tomorrow, and I've decided to go. The walk's only a mile or so, and it will keep me sane, seeing other people. I've barely done anything since Cato rang my doorbell—if I let myself, I can spend days on end without getting out of bed, just staring at the ceiling.

But every day, I make myself get up, take a shower, and eat breakfast. Even so, I've lost a considerable amount of weight. Pair that with my height, and I can hardly blame Cato if he calls me a little girl again.

I learned all about the Games. That rumor—about the Hunger Games—it was true. I didn't freak out, and it didn't surprise me. I just felt this little shift in my stomach, like the icy lump was growing. The old, normal Clove is trapped in the ice, her emotions running across her face and her heart like wild horses. But the new Clove had her horses tamed. Now only the feelings I want shown are shown. And I can lie like a dog.

The next morning, I shower but don't eat. I save my food, since I haven't been able to bring myself to get a job, and the Academy is supposed to serve lunch. I put on the hideous training uniform they sent me, which is way too big. It's baggy and grey with tasteless red stripes down the sides. So I decide to make my first statement as a bad girl.

I find my knife and cut the pants. Short. I leave the rest of the outfit as it is, because…I guess I'm just not _that_ bad yet.

I slip the knife into my shoe for easy access and start to walk. I tried to find a path that didn't pass Cato's house, but I would have to go at least a mile and a half out of my way. So I go past his big house, suddenly regretting the alterations I made to my uniform. I hope, I pray that he doesn't come out as I pass, but, of course, he does.

"Bye, Britt," he yells, closing the door behind him. I try to hurry on, but he sees me.

"Clove?"

I sigh and keep walking. "Cato."

He hurries to catch up, and then looks me up and down, but with a different expression than the times he's done it before. "What the hell happened to your uniform?"

I stand up a little taller. "I cut it." He's looking at my legs, and smirk. "The intended reaction."

His cheeks turn a light shade of pink. "No, I—you look like you weigh ten pounds."

Now it's my turn to blush. "Well, we don't all have a year's supply of food in our pantry."

"You think I have that much food?"

I shrug.

"You don't need a year's supply to eat three square meals a day, and it looks like you haven't been having that."

"Why do you care, anyway?"

Cato shrugs, and offers no more explanation. We walk the rest of the way in silence.

The Academy looks like one giant gym from the outside, and kind of inside, too. On one side, weights, wrestling mats, and those net-things for climbing line the wall. But on the other side, that's how I know it's training for a killing game.

Spears, weights, bulls-eyes, dummies, mats for hand-to-hand combat, and even a fake tree to practice what it might be like in the arena. But my favorite part, the part that gives a sharp jolt of joy, is the knives. Rows and rows and rows of knives—big, sword-like knives, some that look like kitchen knives, little glistening daggers. I lick my lips. Training might be more fun than I thought.

I realize Cato's already moved on to a group of other good-looking, muscular boys. The advanced group, I guess. I wonder where I'm supposed to go.

My question is answered when a big, muscled woman with a clipboard comes up to me. "Clove Fuhrman," She says gruffly. I nod.

She looks at my training uniform, but doesn't say anything. I get the feeling that I'm not the first to do something like this.

"Follow me, girl," she says, and walks towards a group of petite, mousy girls. I snort out loud. I guess my throwing talent isn't enough to get me out of the beginner group—or maybe they don't know about it.

We spend most of the day doing hand-to-hand with each other. The only girl who can beat me is Terra, the tallest of all of us, with eyes almost as blue as Cato's and sandy hair. In the last hour, though, the coach-lady (whose name is Avalon) let us show her our best skill. I went last.

I walked to the knives and searched through for the perfect one. The swords were too big and clunky to throw, and the little daggers were obviously for hand-to-hand. I looked at the kitchen-like knives, but still couldn't find one that felt right. So I gave up and pulled my knife out of my sock.

Avalon probably thinks I'm some kind of psycho now, keeping a knife in my shoe. Maybe I am. Psycho, that is. I try not to think about it too much.

I turn to the dummies and stand on the red throwing line, but it's barely even half the distance I'm used to. I throw a couple from there anyway, just to show I can, and then back up to the far wall. I toss over and over, making it right in the heart each time. Killing the dummy.

When I finally turn back to Avalon, she's…almost _smiling _at me. Not the reaction I expected—but then, I guess people around here are proud of their little killing-machine babies. Who knows?

"Wow, Clove. Very impressive." I think she might say, _for a girl your size,_ but for once she ignored my stature. "So impressive, in fact, that I might move you up a level."

I raise my eyebrows. "Well, that's nice of you, but I'm not good at anything else."

Avalon looks at me a moment longer and then at her clipboard. "Actually, Clove, you did win almost all of your closed combat matches today. And if you can throw knives, it means you're confident with them, which means you'll be able to use swords and daggers, too."

I don't know what to say. Thankfully, Avalon saves me by continuing. "I study combat psychology, Clove. Trust me."

And how can I refuse? She signs me up for level three classes the next day.

As I leave, Cato—who else?—catches up with me. "I saw you throwing those knives today. Not bad."

I half-smile, but I don't think he sees.

"Did Avalon move you up a level?"

I nod.

"Ah. Well, us level five-ers"—He says "level five" like I'm supposed to be impressed. I'm not—"know you'll never be as good as us, and you'll never actually get to go in the Games, but we'd like a knife thrower in our group if you somehow do end up in the arena."

I stop in my tracks to turn and look at him. "Wait—you're asking me to form an alliance? In the Hunger Games, where everyone dies anyway?" He opens his mouth, probably to say, _Not everybody,_ but I cut him off. "That's sick. Whoever named it the Hunger _Games_ was sick. I can't believe you people spend your lives training for something you may or may not go to, and if you do go, you'll probably die anyway. Well, I don't want to have a part in this. Got it?"

He stares at me, and then his eyes go cold. "Whatever. I was just trying to make an alliance—in or out of the Games." And then he walks off, leaving me alone in the world once again.


	6. Chapter 6

I don't know how long I stand there on the sidewalk. A long time. But eventually, I shake my head and start to walk home.

Why do I care that Cato's mad? He's a jerk. He's _sick_ to want to go in the Hunger Games. This whole city is sick. This whole _country._ Why did we have to move here? If Mom n' Dad had never heard about the job, if they hadn't taken it, we'd all still be living normal lives.

We'd all still be _living._

Once I make it home, it's after ten, and I go straight to bed. My first day at the Academy tired me out. I groggily change out of my uniform and flop into the bed that seems to get bigger and bigger every night.

The sun wakes me up in the morning, as it does every morning for the next week. I go through the motions of punching and ducking and throwing. My new instructor, Flannery, is not impressed by my knives, and when I see what some other kids can do, neither am I. One girl, Skai, can knock you on your back with her sword before you know she's in the room. There's a mountain of a boy named Trigg who can punch your lights out in under a second. My knife throwing starts to look measly pretty fast.

But I'm improving. I can throw while running, with my eyes closed, and at a moving target (not all three at once, but I'm working on it). And I'm getting better at other things, too—Avalon was right about me being good with swords. I'm no where near as good as Skai, but I'm getting better. And I'm fast. Apparently, being 5'2" and weighing eighty pounds has its advantages. Flannery says that I just need some muscle, and then I'll be good as gold. Unfortunately, getting some muscle requires a healthy diet, which is something I can't afford right now.

I did get a job cleaning houses. Not the big Victor's Village type, but ones like mine. I scrub strangers' toilets and dust their mantles. Sometimes, when I'm alone in the house, I'll sit and look at their family pictures and cry. I know it sounds pathetic, and maybe a little creepy, but it actually makes me feel better.

There's one house that I go to regularly, and they have a picture of a pretty brunette girl with a splash of freckles on her nose. It's in fancy silver frame with a plaque underneath. One day when I was dusting, I bothered to read it, and I never looked at the house the same way again.

_Citra Michelle Abler, 71st Hunger Games._

This girl had died in the Games. I knew it happened, but to have it personalized and set in a frame—that changed everything. This family had loved their Citra Michelle, and then she had died. Maybe they watched her murder, through a tinny television screen, knowing that their lives would never be the same.

One night, the couple came home when I was still there. They burst through the door in a cloud of laughter and flowery perfume. Their daughter had died, not even…three years ago, and they were laughing. I hadn't laughed since my parents died. I don't think I'd even _smiled._ Would I ever be able to laugh like them? It certainly didn't feel like it.

It's The Day, the day everyone at the Academy had been talking about. The day when the instructors announce who will be volunteering at the reaping next month. Those two people will go into double intense training, dieting, and living until their slaughter.

I walk into the gym and immediately get blasted with a roar. Every kid in the building is with their group of friends/combat partners, gossiping like a bunch of high school-ers before prom. Only here, the latest scoop is who's going to get to go in the Games and get their head chopped off. And apparently, Panem kids haven't learned of the whisper, so as I pass by, I hear guess after guess: several Catos, a few Skais, even a Terra. And a bunch of names I don't recognize. No Cloves, but I'm not surprised. I doubt anyone here even knows my name, let alone thinks I'm a good candidate for a killing game.

No one can focus today, so about halfway through the day an instructor comes out with a clipboard. He pushes some ink-black hair behind his ear and says, in a self-important voice, "I am about to reveal which lucky two of you will go into the 74th annual Hunger Games and bring pride to your district."

I think he's going to say, _Drum roll, please!_ But he just keeps going. People are getting restless.

"Before I continue, I need you to understand this: going into the Games is a great honor, but it is also a risk. You all know how things work in the arena, so I'm not going to get into the details. But be warned: the Hunger Games are a very. Dangerous. Game."

"So who's going in?" Some guy yells, followed by snickers. The instructor glares at us, and then says curtly, "Cato Ludwig and Mika Yarning."

The room immediately erupts into cheers. Cato and a dark-haired girl who I guess is Mika get pushed into the middle of the crowd, to much congratulating and chest bumping. Well, for Cato, at least. I'm not paying any attention to Mika.

I don't know how I feel about this, but I do know that I need to talk to Cato. I've never been one to run away from a problem, and I'm not about to start now.

But it looks like that's not going to happen. Cato is surrounded by people, and when the instructors announce that training is over for the day, they practically carry him out of the gym. I guess it will have to wait till tomorrow.

It's been two days since I ate anything, and I'm almost out of food. I have no idea how to get to my parents' money, or even where they keep it in Panem, so I have to learn to live on the measly twenty coins I get per week. The water bill is…well, I won't bore you with the math, but after water and electricity I have thirty coins for one month's worth of food.

I go down to the market and get bread, cheese, and some apples—a beggar's diet. I know that Cato and Mika will be eating flax bread and broccoli, but in the end it won't matter. They'll both die.

I go back to my house, but I can't sleep. I go outside and throw my knife, practicing the new move Flannery taught me: throwing while doing a back flip. I don't know when it would come in handy. Maybe if I entered a knife throwing/gymnastics competition.

I guess I fall asleep in the backyard, because the sun wakes me up. Today is Saturday, so no Academy. My day to visit Cato.

I put on my threadbare coat even though it's not cold and start the walk. It's early, so he might still be asleep, but he won't be at training.

When I reach his house, I knock with the lion knocker and wait. When no one answers, I knock again. Finally, a bald man with bags under his eyes and a plaid bathrobe answers. He stares at me. "Umm…I'm Clove, Cato's friend from the Academy," I say. Then my Perfect Little Clover manners kick in. "Sorry to wake you, but I need to know a time when Cato won't be in training."

The man looks confused. "Well, Clov, Cato spent the night at a friend's house, but I assume that his training hours will remain the same as the rest of the Academy's."

"Oh. I thought that volunteers went through some kind of special training."

The man looks even more confused now. Then it dawns on me. _He didn't know Cato was picked to volunteer._

It looks like he got it, too, because a huge smile creeps onto his face. "Oh, we didn't know! Oh, this is fantastic! Riva! Riva! We can throw him a—" The door slams in my face.

I feel strange as I walk away. I try to pinpoint the emotion, but I can't quite figure it out. Pity? Nope. Disdain? Uh-uh. Jealousy? Definitely not. I can't put my finger on it, but I somehow feel different about Cato as I walk away.

I mean, does he like being so pressured? I assume he is, because his dad was so happy that his son gets to be murdered on live TV. Does he get to choose? If he was a nerdy wimp, would his parents love him?

Okay, now I need to talk to him more than ever.


	7. Chapter 7

I didn't think it was possible, but my life just got worse.

That feeling I got the other day, about Cato, has expanded. It's growing and growing, eating at my insides to make room. I'm never hungry anymore, because there's no room in my stomach anymore. And I've been able to figure out what this monster emotion is—regret.

And I don't think it's just about Cato. I'm regretting moving here, letting my parents go that morning, being so crazy. I'm regretting blowing off Cato, not talking to him, burying my issues under blood and sweat. Because I am Clove Fuhrman, and I don't run from a problem. I chase it and tackle it until there's nothing left of it.

But even now that I know what it is, I don't feel like I can solve it. My whole life is a problem now, like a knot in your hair that you ignore and ignore until it's so big you have to cut it out. Only, I can't "cut out" my problems, I have to face them.

I decide to face Cato, and I know when. His parents sent me an actual thank-you letter for telling them about Cato's accomplishment, and also a legitimate invitation to his congratulatory party. It seems a little strange that this family gave _random girl who told us about Cato being chosen to volunteer_ an invitation, unless…no. Cato wouldn't have told them about me.

The party is tonight, and I decided to go. I went shopping and splurged eighty whole coins on a dress I'll only wear once. It's strapless, kind of tight and silvery on top, but it shimmers blues and purples in the light. The bottom is a burst of feathers, not too poofy, though, in all shades of blue and purple, down to about mid-thigh. After all I spent on the dress, I had to buy a bargain pair of shoes, silver ballet flats with a couple scuffs. After I went home and looked at myself in the mirror, I wondered why in the world I had spent so much on a dress for a stupid party. It was something my old self would have done, Perfect Little Clover, always needing to look perfect. I guess you can't totally erase your identity.

Now I have an hour before the party starts. I can't believe myself. My parents have just died, and I'm sitting on my bed, pouting over how I have no jewelry to wear. How awful am I? I think about wearing some of my mother's jewelry, but then kick myself for it. How can I do that?

I use doing my hair as an excuse to go into my parents' room. I try to forget all the other places in my house where there are mirrors.

I put my long, straight, dark hair into a fishtail braid and break the ice by using a little of my mom's lip gloss. Mascara is next, followed by a touch of eye shadow. A feeling of…of _normalcy_ settles over me. I'm a regular teenage girl, getting ready for a regular party. I coax that thought to grow and ride it over to my mom's jewelry. It's still in a cardboard box, so I sift through the twinkling necklaces, bracelets, hair pins, earrings, and rings until I find the perfect one.

It was her favorite. She said she wore it on her first date with my dad, that's why she loves it so much. The purple beads wink when I move it, telling me it's okay, so I slip the necklace over my head and go back to the mirror.

If my mother were here, she'd tell me how pretty I looked, then hug me and say some mushy stuff about how fast I'm growing up. I'd roll my eyes and push her away. But if she were to walk in, _right now_, I'd let her do anything she wants. She could quip me about using her necklace without asking and I'd apologize for days. She could give me an hour long speech with tears and all about how fast I'm growing up, and I'd sit with rapt attention through every minute of it. I find myself staring at the door, waiting for her to walk through, but of course she doesn't.

"You look so pretty, Clove," I whisper, and then hug myself as I start to cry.

It takes nearly half an hour and several re-applications of makeup, but I finally make it out the door with minimal red puffy eyes. I found some earrings that somewhat match the necklace, and I caught myself almost, _almost_ smiling as I looked at my reflection. Not quite, though.

I'm glad that I didn't wear high heels after the first half. These are not good walking shoes—they keep slipping off my heels. I'll probably get blisters.

I have to trouble finding Cato's house in the dark. There are about a million of those weird car-things out front, and balloons and lights and lots of music. People seem to be spilling out onto the front lawn, holding plastic cups of what I assume is beer. The adult party is apparently in the backyard, with more tasteful lighting and softer, more mature music.

When I step inside, I step into total chaos. The entire Academy seems to be here, plus about a hundred other kids I've never seen before. This is not an elite party.

In fact, it's your classic teenager blowout. There are streamers and people spraying silly string and enough food on the banquet table to feed a kingdom. A huge "Congratulations Cato!" banner hangs from the high ceiling, and the man himself comes walking down the stairs at that moment.

He looks pretty darn good. He's in a tux with a gold crown on his head (I wouldn't be surprised if it was real gold). He has a gorgeous blond girl in a short, tight red dress on his arm—Glimmer, probably—and they're both grinning hugely. The room bursts into applause as he descends the glass staircase, and when he reaches the bottom, everyone in the room tries to talks to him at once. A bunch of guys start ogling Glimmer, and she gives flirty glances to every one of them. _What a slut,_ I think. _But definitely Cato's type._

I choose not to be part of the throng of Cato's adoring fans, and instead slip away to explore the house. I come across the occasional lost teen or adult, but never acknowledge them. I get lost myself, since every room seems to look the same and there are these weird little short staircases that get me confused about which floor I'm on. Eventually, I find myself outside on a deck overlooking a glassy swimming pool. There are stairs going down, and if I bend around the side of the house, I can see the adult party. I stand there for a long time, looking at the stars, long enough for more than a few couples to slip into neatly pruned woods below me. I contemplate going back inside and trying to find my way to the food table, but a voice stops me.

"Clove?"

I jerk around to see none other than Cato himself.

"Where did you come from?" I ask, annoyed that he was able to sneak up on me.

"Well, this is my house, but if you must now, I just escaped from the pats on the back and congratulations down there." He smirks, pointing to the adult party, and I realize he must have come up the wooden stairs.

I turn to face him. This is my chance. "Cato, we need to talk."

He raises his eyebrows.

"Look, I'm—I'm sorry I blew you off the other day. About being allies. It—it was nice offer, I guess."

He stares at me, then sighs and goes to stand by the railing. I follow.

"It's okay, Clove. It was a weird thing to say, huh? I mean, what are the odds that we'd end up in the arena together. And for you…" he trails off.

We stand in silence for a moment, and then he continues. "I'm sorry you moved here, Clove."

I'm taken aback. What's that supposed to mean? He must realize that his words didn't come out right, because he starts to correct them. "I mean, it's good, I guess. I mean, it's okay. I don't know if you like it or not. I mean, it's not like people hate it. I don't. I don't love it or anything, but I don't hate it. I just meant to say that I'm sorry you have to go through the whole Hunger Games thing, and if I die, I don't know what people will do. Everyone expects me to win, and bring pride to my district, you know. I think they'll hate me if I lose, and—"

He apparently realizes that he's let out more information than he meant to, and he turns away. "Sorry. Just lots of stress, you know?" he mutters, starting to walk away.

"Cato."

He turns back to me. "It's not crazy, Cato. And—I don't know much about the Hunger Games, but I do know about—what it's like to…lose someone." I pick my words carefully. I'm not planning on telling Cato about my parents, or anyone, for that matter.

"Your parents won't hate you. If you die, I mean. They'll cry and cry, and give you a huge funeral, and put your picture in a fancy silver frame with a plaque underneath." I'm babbling now, and I can feel tears coming on, but I can't stop. "And then, in three years, when they've cried themselves sick and had their fill of death, they'll go on with their lives like nothing ever happened. It'll look like that, anyway. On the outside. But on the inside, they'll have a little lump of ice that never goes away, and if they let it, it would grow and grow and take over their whole body."

In one swift movement, Cato steps forward and puts his arms around me. I cry into his jacket. He probably thinks I'm crazy, but I feel safer than I have in a long, long time.


	8. Chapter 8

I lose track of time in Cato's arms. I don't know how long we stood like that—long enough for me to run out of tears. And when I do, I realize just how wrong the whole thing really is.

Cato's probably laughing at me on the inside. His friends are probably just out of sight, snickering and making fun of me. I pull away and turn from him, so he doesn't see that I'm about to cry again.

"Sorry, Cato."

"No, Clove—"

Suddenly a new voice breaks him off. "Cato?" I turn to see who came to his rescue, but wish I hadn't.

Glimmer's outfit is as sexy as ever. Her twins are in serious danger of popping out of the tight red dress, and she's staggering a little on her black stilettos (and some form of alcohol, too, probably). But as much as I hate to say it, she still looks damn good. And apparently, Cato thinks so too, because he draws her into a make-out session before she can even look at me.

I know I should leave, but I'm too stunned. I shouldn't be, I guess. What happened with Cato was probably pure pity. Just because I felt something doesn't mean he did. Of course he didn't feel anything. Why would he bother with a girl like me, plain and short and…well, _plain_, when he can stick his tongue down Glimmer's throat anytime he wants? She's blonde and drop-dead gorgeous and…and her name is _Glimmer._ Can't compete with that. Not even Stella Green, the drop-dead gorgeous blonde from my old high school, could even come close to matching Glimmer.

But…I'm not jealous. I search my mind for the feeling, but it's nowhere. I'd never been jealous of Stella like my friends were. I mean, sure I envied her about some things, like how easy she was to talk to and all her cute boyfriends, but it wasn't like I wanted to be her. Be _like_ her, sure. But in my own way. If I was going to be popular, I would be Clove Fuhrman, popular girl.

I guess that's kind of how I feel now. If I'm going to be Cato's girlfriend, I'm going to Clove Fuhrman, Cato's girlfriend. Not Glimmer, Cato's girlfriend.

That's what I tell myself, anyway, but watching them kiss definitely gets me jealous. I want Cato to see that he hurt me, even if he didn't mean to. I want him to understand that I'm one thing he can't have in his perfect life.

But…my plan fades as I wait for one minute, then two, for them to break apart. The longer I watch, the more fight goes out of me. I end up just sulking away, around the side of the house and back in the front door.

The main room is emptier now, with a few groups talking and laughing and intoxicated, no doubt. But most of the couples have moved off to one of the thousands of empty rooms, for privacy. The dining hall is deserted, so I give in to my growling stomach and chow down. Bowls of punch, candy, cupcakes, and something that looks suspiciously like cheese balls are among the only things I can recognize. There's one empty glass bowl with purple crumbs at the bottom, and I'm glad I don't know what filled it, judging by the smell. I eat a cupcake or two (they're delicious) and drink punch until my tongue is died red.

I ignore the row of kegs that squat against the wall, even though I wouldn't mind forgetting tonight. But I know what alcohol will do to you. I learned enough from my uncle, who died of alcohol poisoning when I was five.

I stick with punch. But red dye and artificial fruit flavoring isn't quite strong enough to suppress my thoughts of Cato, so I start to trudge home. It's late—almost midnight, I think—so I should be going anyway. I don't even feel scared on the walk home, because there's no room in my mind for any thought other than Cato. He fills my head. His face, the sound of his voice, the feel of his arms around me. I don't know what's wrong with me. It's kind of like…the feeling I got when my parents died, filling me up until nothing else counts, only this time, it makes me feel _happy_. All warm and fizzy, melting away a little bit of the ice that's been in the pit of my stomach ever since my parents died.

When I fall asleep, I dream about him.

He's with Glimmer. They're kissing, but just sitting there with their lips pressed together, not moving. And then his face kind of flickers, and he just fades away. Glimmer stays in the same position, just pouting out her lips, eyes closed.

Then Cato appears behind me, whispering in my ear, but I don't understand anything he says. Except the last words: _Do you love me? I love you, Clover. Do you love me?_

I want to say yes, but my mouth won't move.

When I wake, I shake my head to clear it. What was that about? I do _not _love Cato. He's a jerk. Maybe my subconscious was telling me that, telling me to turn him down, because my mouth wouldn't move.

I try and go through my day like everything is normal. Whenever I think about my mom, my dad, Cato, or Glimmer, I go into the backyard and make myself throw for an hour. I perfect the back flip throw, and start working on one I came up with, one that might actually come in handy—throwing at a moving target while running backwards. If I need to run away, I'll still be able to hit my attacker.

By the end of the day, I've got it down, plus I can shoot at a moving target through trees. I practiced that one in the small forest behind my house.

I eat some bread and cheese for dinner, and then go to bed early for training. As I drift off to sleep, a new thought occurs to me. It slips out from the corner of my mind that's slowly going crazy. It dances around my brain, spreading the shadows from its corner.

_How did your parents die?_

In the morning, I lay in bed until well after I'm supposed to leave for the Academy. But the thought hasn't left me all night, and I can't believe it's never occurred to me before. Suddenly, I _need _to know how it happened. It's eating at me, pushing away all thoughts of Cato, or even my knife throwing. I just _Have. To. Know._

So I skip training and start to search through the house for clues as to where my dad worked. I don't know for sure, but I'm pretty sure he was going to be some kind of Peacekeeper. Fenton Trindle had told my dad to go down to City Hall when we first got here. That's my first lead.

In the kitchen, underneath a bunch of airplane brochures, I find a different kind of brochure. It's printed on extra-glossy paper, and on the front is a picture of a row of Peacekeepers outside a big building. _Five Easy Steps to Becoming a Model Panem Citizen,_ it reads in fancy script. And then, under that in smaller type, _District Two._

I settle on the couch and open it.

_Step One: Help those who cannot help you—help without the expectation of return._

I skip that one. It's just a bunch of crap about how Peacekeepers help those in need, without expecting anything in return, because that's their job. Underneath that, though, there's an address to City Hall. That might come in handy.

_Step Two: Accept Panem as your home._

I read that one, because it talks about how amazing Panem is, and also about President Snow. I'll have to do more research on him, because I'm sure this brochure is totally biased. It doesn't say on negative thing about him. Not even a neutral statement—just gushes on and on about how wonderful and perfect he is.

_Step Three: Know your District._

This one's about how District Two is the very best place to live. There's a map, too. Apparently, we live in the Heford village, near Victor's Village. _That's where Cato lives, _I think. _So one of his parents must have been in the Games._ There are several other villages; all centered around one big mountain called "the Nut." We have mines, and we do masonry for the Capitol, which is also amazing, according to this.

_Step Four: Have an occupation._

This one says that when you have an occupation, you contribute to the good of the people, and the people contribute to you and your family. Blah, blah, blah. Look what happened when my dad got a job.

The last page is torn out. _Huh, _I think, getting up off the couch to look for it. But I search until evening, under, in, and on top of everything in the house, and still can't find it. What could have been on that page that was so terrible my parents wouldn't let me see it?


	9. Chapter 9

I want to skip training again the next day, but Flannery would kill me. So I pull on my uniform and trudge out the door, picking at an apple as I go. I can't stop wondering what could have been on the last page. Probably something about Peacekeepers or…or his job, or…Panem. I really don't know.

I don't make any progress on my trek to the Academy. It's driving me _insane._ I can't concentrate on the rant Flannery gives about tardiness and how lucky I am to be able to train for the Games—wait a minute. The Hunger Games! Of course! That's what must've been on the last page. They brought it to keep it away from me.

I snort. Because now I'm training for them. How sick is that?

I immerse myself in training, showing off my new moves. Flannery crosses his arms and grudgingly gives me a "not bad." Skai pats me on the back and says I'm doing awesome. Even Trigg nods his approval, and then promptly flips me on my back and sits on me. So…I'm doing pretty well.

But Cato's not here. I guess he has a private trainer now, learning how to look good on TV before his death. I realize it bothers me that Cato will die. And, for the first time, a little spark of hope ignites in me, right in the middle of the ice. Maybe…maybe Cato will win. Maybe he'll go home to eternal celebrations and money. Maybe he'll live a charmed life, having taken a few others. I'll be waiting for him, at the edge of the crowd of girls there will no doubt be, and if he picks me out of all of them, then maybe he really does like me. Maybe we'll live happily ever after.

Or maybe he'll die.

The thought suddenly haunts me, but I push it away. I do _not_ care for Cato. Sure, it'd be sad if he dies, but I don't _like_ him. He's a jerk.

I focus on swords with Skai for the next hour. I can go a whole minute before she kills me.

Hand-to-hand combat with Trigg is probably my worst area. I'm fast, so if I get the opportunity to run, I do. But when it comes to punching, I couldn't take out Trigg if my life depended on it. (Which, I guess, is the scenario we're training for.) Flannery pairs me with a boy from another level three group, who I'm more evenly matched with.

He gives me a dazzling smile, the light glinting of his perfect teeth. "I'm Cogan."

I give a half-smile back, sure that the light has better things to do than glint off my teeth. "Clove."

His smile drops away as we get into position. "Go!" He shouts, and we start fighting.

He lunges at me, but I jump out of the way, getting behind him. I think it's a clever move, but before I can even think what to do next he's already turned around and grabbed my waist. He not-so-gently tosses me on the floor and sits on my stomach. What is it with these people and sitting on me? Did I miss that lesson?

Flannery comes over, along with a tall, thin man who must be Cogan's instructor. They both give approving nods to Cogan, and Flannery scowls at me. "Miss Fuhrman. Please try not to fall asleep during training."

I roll my eyes. Really? This really looks like I decided to take a nap?

Once they leave, Cogan shoots me another grin and stands up. He offers his hand to help me up, and I take it. "You know, going behind me was about the most predictable thing you could do. Next time, stay in front. Make the first move."

I stare at him for a second, unsure of what I just heard. "What?" he asks.

"It's just…I usually don't get advice. Just a scowl from Flannery and a bored face from Trigg."

Cogan laughs. "Well, advice is a handy thing to get when you're training."

We keep practicing, and I even win a couple times. But the most surprising part is I actually find myself smiling and some of his lame jokes. His constant good mood is infectious, unlike Cato's somber sarcasm.

At the end of the day, when training is over, a new thought occurs to me. "How can you be so happy when we're training for the Hunger Games?"

He takes a swig from his water bottle and looks at me. "It's not like I'm going to go. I mean, I'm eighteen, so this is the last year I'm eligible anyway. And why would the name Cogan Rutgers get picked out of that huge ball, when there are so many others that might be? It's a statistical anomaly."

I nod like I understand. Like it makes sense. But as I lay in bed, I realize that Cogan and I think of the Games in two completely different ways: I think of it as sick, mindless murders, and he sees the whole thing as statistics.

I guess, maybe, native Panem-ers might just accept the Hunger Games. They might be horrible, but there's nothing we can do about them. And as long as they don't get reaped, then who cares anyway?

But I see it differently. Sure, it's got to be a pretty small chance for one name to be chosen, but it happens every year. Every year, someone like Cogan, someone who says, _no way it'll be me,_ gets chosen. And that might be an anomaly, but it's also a life.

The next week goes by with increasing buzz about the reaping. Cogan gives me a grin and a countdown every morning. _Two weeks on the dot_ was his update today.

I'm winning more than losing with him these days. Every so often, he'll win a round, but usually it's me. "You're gonna have to start losing, or we're not going to be partners anymore!" Cogan says cheerfully, after another match ending with me sitting on his stomach. I stand up and give him a hand.

"Want to do something more interesting?" He asks, looking at me with his hazel eyes. "Uhhh…" I start, not quite sure what he means. He just laughs, never averting his eyes from mine. He takes my hand and I feel a little shiver up my spine. Not like when Cato held me, but…something.

We end up outside, at the archery range. He gives me one last grin and lets go of my hand. I watch him as he picks up a bow, nocks the arrow, and lets it go. Bull's-eye.

He does it again, and then grins at me. "This is my talent. I love it. Want to learn?"

I'm about to respond when I feel the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, like someone's watching me. I slowly turn around, expecting to see no one, but it's not no one.

It's Cato.

He's standing there, staring at me, ignoring a man who seems to be teaching him how to shoot. I want to say something, go talk to him, but I remind myself that he's not a nice guy. To him, I'm just the pathetic girl from the party. Nothing more.

So I turn back to Cogan. "Sure. I'd love to."

He smiles and stands behind me, positioning my hands but also kind of hugging me at the same time, like those romantic scenes in the movies. But it doesn't feel right, not with Cato watching us. I shoot once, barely making it in the outermost circle, and then pull away from Cogan. "Want to see my talent?" I ask. He looks slightly disappointed, but nods and goes slips back into his constant grin. I head inside towards the knives, and glance at Cato one more time. He's smirking.

That bugs me. What on earth is he _smirking_ about?


	10. Chapter 10

It's been over a week since my last Cato sighting, when I was out with Cogan. Speaking of him, we had a very awkward conversation the other day. I said _just friends_, and I think he's okay with it, but it doesn't really matter because I moved back up to fighting Trigg. I still lose, but I'm getting better.

The countdown to the reaping is getting more intense. "Three days!" Skai squealed to me this morning. These people are crazy. _Happy_ about the Hunger Games. And those who aren't jumping with joy are just casual about it, like they're counting down to the season premiere of Real Housewives. It's freaky.

I moved up to level four yesterday! Skai (and Trigg, unfortunately) moved up with me. Now we're the budding starlets of the Academy. Level five is celebrity, and Cato and Mika are in a class of their own. More like legends than real people (to those who haven't met them, anyway). Training has definitely gotten more intense, but Trigg has kind of taken over as instructor.

Our real instructor is Eris, a totally ditzy blonde. How she got a job here, I don't know, but Trigg will do anything she says, including take over class while she does who-knows-what. This morning, she tossed her hair and put a hand on his shoulder, and he totally melted. I even _beat_ him at hand-to-hand because he was watching her walk away. This brings to mind Flannery's favorite expression, _Distraction is the best weapon._

It seems like no one is able to focus today, though, because of the reaping. But there's no way they're going to cut class short today, or tomorrow, or the next day. If anything, they'll make it longer. All the instructors (minus Eris, of course) are hustling around with paperwork in their arms. One man over by the door is handing money to a Peacekeeper. I ask Skai what that was all about.

She laughs. "Well, training for the Hunger Games is technically illegal. That's why it's called Avalon Didden's School of Self-Defense. But if you really look into the whole thing, it's pretty obvious what we're doing, so they pay off the Peacekeepers not to fink on us."

I'm not that surprised. It's definitely not bellow the instructors here, specifically Flannery and Eris, to do something like that.

Skai and Trigg start doing swords, and I decide to go practice more archery. I'd completely forgotten about it as a weapon until Cogan reminded me. I hope he's not out there.

My wish comes true, but I'm not alone. Cato's shooting.

It's pointless to try and go unnoticed, so I come up behind him. "Hi," I whisper.

He spins around and nocks his arrow in one quick movement. I jump back and put my hands in the air. "Whoa, whoa," I say.

He lowers his bow. "Oh. Sorry. But don't you know to never come up to a man when he's shooting?" A hint of a smile is on his face.

I give a hint of a smile back. "I'll be more careful from now on."

We stand there for a moment, neither of us saying anything. I want to tell him something, apologize for what happened at the party, but I can't.

Cato saves me. "So…Clove…about the party thing…"

Okay, maybe he didn't save me.

I shift my feet, refusing to meet his gaze. "Oh…yeah, um…sorry. I don't know what happened there."

Cato clears his throat. "So, we're cool?"

"Yeah, we're cool."

Cato shoulders visibly relax, like an actual weight has been taken off them. Who knows, maybe it has. He smirks at me. "Aren't you going to wish me good luck?"

"It won't help, but if it means that much to you…then _good luck._"

The smirk drops off his face. "What to you mean, 'it won't help'?"

The light mood of the conversation vanishes in an instant. "I…I just meant…I mean, Cato, luck is dumb. It doesn't exist. It's just a psychological thing. If you win, you win. If you lose, you lose. Luck has nothing to do with it." And with that, I turn on my heel and walk back into the training center, never even having practiced my archery.

I can't sleep tonight. My conversation with Cato keeps playing back in my head. A little voice says, _You should have been nicer to him. He has enough pressure already._ But that's not me. Perfect Little Clover would have comforted him, but not now. I told him the truth. Luck doesn't exist.

If it did, I wouldn't be living in Panem. I would have a normal life. My parents would be alive.

And I would still be playing Perfect Little Clover.

I guess, if luck doesn't exist, that means that neither good nor bad luck does. Sometimes, that's a little hard to believe.

**Sorry for the shortness, but I promise the story will get better from here! Zellie XOXO**


	11. Chapter 11

It's reaping day.

Everything is closed—the Academy, everyone's jobs, the market, all the stores. It's a national holiday, where everyone in every district goes home and celebrates in the evening. Everyone, that is, except an unfortunate twenty-four families.

I put on my ratty coat, the one I always wore to Cato's, and some leather boots. I know you're supposed to dress up, but the only fancy clothes I have is the party dress, and no way am I wearing _that._ So I go plain.

I walk all the way to the town square, only getting lost a few times. Downtown is huge—tall glass office buildings, fat, white stone movie theatres, dingy grey strip malls. But I'm headed to City Hall.

It's a huge, peach-colored stone building, with grand wooden doors with the words DISTRICT TWO CITY HALL engraved in gold above them. But outside it is the most impressive sight: hundreds of thousands of kids, from ages twelve to eighteen, penned off like livestock waiting to be slaughtered (a very fitting comparison, I suppose). And all around them, older siblings, parents, and young children stand, with fingers crossed. A crazy-looking woman sits on stage, with navy blue hair and burgundy lips, cheeks and eye shadow. I can see it from way back here.

Two, more subdued men sit beside her, one with white-blond hair and a crisp suit and the other bald and in a ancient, moldy looking one.

It takes some searching, but eventually I join the other sixteen-year-old girls in their cage and wait for this thing to start.

It's not a long wait. The woman with blue hair steps up, after conversing briefly with the two men, and begins her speech. "Today," she starts, with a strange accent "is a very special day. Today is, as you know, the day of the reaping."

This woman seems to find some extreme importance in herself. She speaks slowly and deliberately, drawing out each word to its maximum length, to hear herself talk and stay up onstage as long as possible. "And I am, as you know, Umea Nare." I did not know that. "I am your Capitol Escort, here to teach the two lucky tributes all about my and President Snow's home, the lovely Capitol of Panem."

She continues on about the Capitol and President Snow, practically reading that brochure I found word-for-word. I tune her out until she steps forward, to two large fishbowl-looking things at the front of the stage filled with little pieces of paper. I guess those are the slips of paper with people's names on them.

Umea steps forward and pulls one out. "And…the lucky male tribute is…Kin Hamper!"

A mousy boy looks stricken as he slowly climbs up to the stage. And then, "I volunteer!" calls a deep voice, and Cato climbs up the steps. Kin looks completely relieved as he goes back down. I feel a little disappointed, but I can't figure out why.

Umea holds up Cato's fist. She seems delighted. "A volunteer! How exciting!" She starts to give another speech about bravery, but the bald man gets up and whispers something in her ear. She nods vigorously. "And now, for our lucky girl!"

She stands beside the other giant fishbowl and pulls out a name. "Clove Fuhrman!"

It takes me a minute to process that. Was that really _my_ name she just called? I don't think so. It can't be.

But she says it again. "Clove Fuhrman? Are you here, Clove?"

I take a deep breath and start to walk. I'm suddenly very dizzy, so tell myself to calm down. _Don't worry. Mika will volunteer for you_. This calms me down. It's true. She has to.

But I get to the stage and wait, wait for her voice. I scan the crowd for her face, but can't see it anywhere. And now Umea's holding up my fist and Cato's, and the two men are shaking my hand, and I'm being propelled into the big building behind me. All this and I'm still waiting for Mika's call. What happened? What happened?

I sink into a red velvet couch in a big room with heavy drapes in the windows. I'm still in shock when I hear Umea telling me, "People will come in and say their goodbyes. It would be best not to cry too much, unless that will be your strategy. It would be best to begin planning your strategy now, too, please." And then she's gone, and I'm alone again.

Reality slowly sinks in. Mika is not coming. I am going to the Hunger Games.

I am going to die.

I start to laugh, my psycho-crazy laugh. No one is going to come say goodbye to me, because I don't know anyone in Panem. _Maybe this will be fun_, I think. _I can do anything I want. No one knows me and no one cares. I can do anything I want._

I keep laughing, even when Umea and the blonde guy come to take me away. I see them looking at each other, having a conversation with their eyes.

_This girl is psycho,_ says Umea.

_I know. Do you think it could work to our advantage?_ Asks blonde guy.

Umea says, _I don't think so. Maybe. But I'm not going to deal with her._

This is when Umea removes her hand from my shoulder. I look up at her and make my left eye twitch, and she visibly recoils. I have to stifle another laugh.

We reach a fancy silver train, and all around are cameras. People crowd me with questions, and I just laugh in their faces. My crazy laugh. Some look confused, others grin like I just gave them a Christmas present. "Do you have Christmas here?" I ask aloud. I figure asking random questions is something a crazy person would do. As I board the sleek train, I think I hear someone answer _yes,_ but it might just be my imagination. This might be the first of a long line of times when I can't tell the difference between reality and my imagination.

* * *

I spend the first half hour of the train ride staring out my window, but even during my act as a crazy person, I get bored. Really bored.

I leave my room and explore the train. Down the hall are more closed doors, probably more bedrooms. I go the other way, to the next car.

There's a dining car, a bar car, even one that looks like a dance room. But I keep going back, towards the caboose. I need some fresh air.

There's just a small space between the door and the little metal rail keeping me from falling onto the tracks. It's short, too. So short…I could just…step over it. I mean, the train's not going _that_ fast. I hop up and sit on the rail, my feet dangling into the open air. On either side of the tracks there appears to be dying fields of grass. They're probably over mines.

I could just…slip over. Land on the tracks, go into the fields. I could follow the train tracks back to civilization. I could go back to living a semi-normal life. I could do it.

I nod to myself, making it real. I'm already sitting on the rail, so all I have to do is let go. Slide off. But my fingers grip it harder. My knuckles are turning white. What's wrong with me?

_You have to do this. It's better than going to the Games,_ says a voice in my head. And it's true. At least this way I have a chance of surviving.

I peel up my pointer fingers, but then realize that I might hurt my pinkies when they're the only fingers left. Yes, that is the worry my diseased mind comes up with right now. So I pick up my pinky fingers first. Then my ring fingers—

"If you're going to do that, you might want to get some food and water from the dining car first."

The voice startles me so much that I almost fall off the railing early. I catch myself just in time and turn around. Cato, of course, is standing there, leaning against the doorway. I glare at him. He smirks.

"I know you're a little messed up, but you're not _that_ crazy." Then he mocks surprise. "Are you?"

This is the part when I'm supposed to respond to him, like a normal person. But we both know I'm not quite normal. I shake my head and turn around, hopping back up onto the railing. I sit there for at least ten minutes, waiting to hear the door close. Only it doesn't. This means either Cato tiptoed away and left the door open, or he has been standing there staring at the back of my head for ten minutes. Neither option seems very likely.

I gingerly turn back around, and he's still there. I sigh. "What do you want, Cato?"

This time, I'm not sure whether his surprise is real or fake. "Oh. Right. Well, we're all looking for you, and now they're probably looking for me, too. Because dinner is served."

He gives a graceful gesture, telling me to go into the hall before him, like he expects me to eat something. I let the laughter come out this time. "What, dinner? As in, food?"

"That's the kind of dinner I was referring to, yes."

I smile dryly. "I think I'll pass. I'm not really hungry at the moment.

"Suit yourself. But come back soon, 'because we have to watch the other reapings."

I nod and turn back to my scenery. The fields are getting slightly greener.

I wait, but again I hear no door. I slowly turn around. "What _is_ it, Cato—"

But he's gone.

**Ha HA! How's that for a chapter? I think it's my fave so far, but lemme know what you think! Zellie XOXO**


	12. Chapter 12

I wait an hour or so for dinner to be over and then I go back to the dining car. Believe it or not, I do want to see the other reapings.

A servant in a white uniform is clearing a table. I ask where the others are, and he nods to a door on the other side of the room. I make my way towards it, dodging more white uniforms carrying trays of half-eaten delicacies.

Cato, Umea, and Blonde Guy are all sitting on a plush couch, arguing about something. I stand in the doorway for a second, listening.

"She's out on the caboose. I think she was going to jump," whispers Cato.

Blonde Guy jerks his head up. "She can't do that. District Two has won three Games in a row. The record is five. Do you know how badly we need one of you to win?"

Cato rolls his eyes. "Don't worry. I'll win."

Blonde Guy matches Cato's eye roll. "That's what they all say."

Suddenly, Cato is on top of Blonde Guy, hands on his throat. "Listen, Davin," he sneers. "That may be what they all say, but for the last three, it came true. Same with me." He holds his position for a moment longer, and then sits back on the couch. For the first time, Umea looks up from her…phone-thing (it looks like the same one Cato's sister had). She shakes her head. "Cato. Perhaps you should reconsider if you ever have thoughts about hurting your mentor, okay?"

I figure this would be a good time to step in, because the conversation topic seems to have strayed from me. Three pairs of eyes— pale brown, electric blue, and a dark navy that can't be real—turn to me.

I sit on the couch, not next to anyone but closest to Umea, and turn back to the eyes. "So are we going to watch the public executions or what?"

Blonde Guy—Davin?—flinches. Umea looks up from her phone long enough to say, "Clove, you should not consider reapings to be the same as execution. You have a chance, as does each and every tribute." And Cato—he seems to smile, just the slightest bit. That makes a vaguely warm feeling rise up and swirl around in my stomach.

Davin sighs. "Yes, Clove, we are going to watch the _reapings_." Then he clicks a button on the couch armrest and a projection appears on the wall across from us.

District One is first. Some boy with a ridiculous name volunteers, and then…Glimmer. I glance at Cato and see his muscles tense up, but he doesn't say anything.

Then it's us. The mousy boy getting called up, Cato volunteering, me slowly moving towards the steps. I see my own troubled face, frantically searching for Mika in the crowd. Thinking of her makes me angry. _Where was she? This is all her fault._

I don't pay attention until District Eleven, because a poor little girl catches my attention. I feel a twinge of pity in the pit of my stomach. The exact opposite of her, a big, burly guy, gets reaped too.

And then District Twelve. Very interesting. According to the general scorn people have for that place, I'm surprised to see a volunteer. A blonde girl almost as small as the one from District Eleven is reaped, and than an older girl volunteers for her. I see Umea, Davin, and even Cato look up at this. "Must be sisters," mutters Davin.

After that, the projection clicks off and Umea and Davin say goodnight. But I can't move. Something about seeing the reapings, knowing that there are twenty-three other kids who feel just like me, makes an odd feeling come over me. Not particularly bad. I feel less alone than I have in a long time. It reminds me that I need to keep up my emotionless-and-maybe-psycho act, because I still have a soft side. No matter how much I try and bury it.

It takes me a minute to realize that I'm sitting alone in a room with Cato. I sneak a look at him out of the corner of my eye, and he's staring at the spot where the screen used to be. _Probably thinking about Glimmer,_ says an annoying voice in my head. I sigh because it's probably true.

"Sorry about Glimmer," I say on impulse.

He starts like he forgot I was in the room. "Oh. Yeah. But it's no big deal."

I turn to look at him. "What the hell does that mean? She's going to die or you're going to die. Probably both of you. Doesn't that _bother_ you, just the tiniest bit?"

"Not really. I just hooked up with her because she's hot and she's a good kisser. And then she moved to District One, and she's probably cheating on me. It's not a big deal. We're not exclusive." Cato smirks at me.

I'm disgusted. Completely and thoroughly disgusted. I open my mouth to try and get him to understand the reality, which is _YOU ARE GOING TO DIE,_ but instead I give up and stand. He won't get it.

"Fine. Whatever. But don't go crying to anyone when she dies and you're about to."

I stomp off to my room, but his laugh follows me into my dreams and makes my blood boil.

Umea wakes me up at some ungodly hour of the morning and drags me off the train. All the way to some huge round building covered in pink lights. And lights are _everywhere_—whitish-yellow on the houses, bright blue and red and green on the stores, and rainbow, pulsing lights on the buildings that are blasting weird music. It's like someone took a miniature city and dumped a store's supply of Christmas lights on it. The lights make everything so bright, I can barely tell it's supposed to be dark out.

Umea shoves me through the door of the pink-light building and mutters something about a Remake Center. I have no idea what this means. But as soon as Umea leaves my side, a new group of colorful faces appears. They introduce themselves—or more like one girl with purple hair introduces everybody—but my brain is still working in sleep mode. I groggily ask what time it is, and Purple Hair says, "Now that's not important, pumpkin. We need to make you beautiful!"

_Oh joy. A makeover,_ I think. Then I realize Cato must be getting one two, which cheers me up a little bit. Once again, I get that feeling that I'm not alone.

For the next three hours, I undergo what Purple Hair (whose name is actually Darlee) calls "the basics." I call it torture. Every hair on my body is torn away, my eyebrows are trimmed, and my teeth are whitened and straightened with some horribly painful metal thing. My hair is washed and glossed, my eyelashes are thickened, and my nails are perfected. I feel somewhat like a doll when the process finally ends.

A plump woman bustles in after Darlee and her minions have left. I'm lying there naked, feeling impossibly self conscious as she looks me over. Just when I'm about to say something, she seems to realize my discomfort and hands me a bathrobe. I take it gratefully and we sit together on the couch.

"Tributes. All the same. So self-conscious. Be glad you don't have that man Darius as your stylist; he enjoys that part a bit too much."

The woman's constant murmuring makes me oddly comforted, like an old grandmother might. And when she pulls out a plate of cookies, I check again to make sure she _isn't _my grandmother.

But with her curly dark hair and silver eyes, she's too young to be anyone's grandmother. She points at the cookies. "Get some meat on your bones while you still can, girly. Once you're in that arena, you'll be lucky to eat one meal a day. And by the looks of it, that's what you're used to. So eat up."

I cautiously take a cookie. They seem safe enough, and I am starving.

She watches closely as I bite into it. It tastes just like the chocolate chip ones my mom used to make, and for a moment I feel an unbearable sadness that makes me want to curl up in a ball and weep.

But then I remember why I'm even eating these cookies. Because my parents are dead and I'm about to be, too. So I toss the cookie away and look into the woman's eyes. "I don't eat cookies."

She laughs, a thick, musical sound, and shakes her head. "Oh, of course. You're the crazy one." She rises from the couch and offers me a hand. I ignore it and stand by myself. She moves over to a door with a keypad and punches in a code, beckoning for me to follow.

I find myself in a mirror. That's what it feels like, at least—being inside a mirror. But really, it's just a small room with mirrors for walls. I turn in a full circle, taking in my appearance in the fluffy white robe. I look a little like a crazed dust bunny.

"I'm your stylist, Fanta. Tonight is the opening ceremonies, and you and the boy need costumes for the carriage ride. You've seen it before, you know what I mean."

I nod even though I have no idea what she means.

"Alright. Well, the costumes reflect the district's main export, which in your case is masonry. So you are going to be stone."

I raise my eyebrows. "Sounds exciting," I say sarcastically. "I've always wanted to dress up as a rock for Halloween."

She gives me a funny look. I guess they don't have Halloween here. "No. Not rock—_stone._ It sounds more elegant, don't you think?" She bustles off and comes back with a shimmery gray dress. "Here you are. Try it on."

I wait for her to leave, but she doesn't. So I turn and try to change with as little exposure a possible. The dress is mostly gray, with spots of white or black or silver, and little chains hanging off the bottom. The neckline has the same little metal bits. I actually don't look to bad in it, if a little slutty. It's tight and only does to about mid-thigh.

Fanta claps her hands. "You look perfect! Now for accessories." She hands me a pair of pale silver tights and full-arm gloves, and a pair of little gray boots. I take them and add them to the outfit. It's very silver.

Fanta claps again and gives a little sigh. "Gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous. Now for hair and makeup!"

Much to my dismay, Fanta and Darlee and the others plan on experimenting with these things for the rest of the day. It's incredibly boring, and made nearly unbearable by the constant chatter between Fanta and Darlee. By the end of it, I've learned that Fanta just got engaged to her sixth husband and Darlee has been kissing up to get an invitation to the wedding. I also got nine different combinations of hair and makeup. The crew finally decided on my hair braided all around my head, making it so none of it hangs down past my ears, and a few accents of silver and gray on my face. I also got some chunky silver jewelry. All in all, I don't look half bad. Just…maybe like a quarter bad, because some of the silver makeup makes me look like I have hypothermia.

When the whole thing is finally done, the four of them circle around me with nods and murmurs of approval. Then they bring Cato in, and he looks just like me, except no dress.

When Umea and Davin see us, Umea gives a little shriek and Davin smiles a half smile. Everyone likes it, and it's time to show the rest of Panem.

**Huh? Huh? I like it okay. How 'bout you? Zellie XOXO**


	13. Chapter 13

Standing in the dark, only a few inches from Cato, more than a few emotions are swirling through me. I try and sort them out, one by one.

Fear. Of the Games.

Sadness. Coming from the ice in my stomach, from my dead parents.

Anticipation. Waiting for the huge doors to open and our chariot to move down the path, to be watched by hundreds of thousands of people.

Butterflies. I grit my teeth, because I hate to admit it. They're from Cato.

I could go on—and on and on—but the grand doors open and the chariots start to move. District One is in front of us, and I can see Glimmer's blonde mane covered in jewels. Their chariot is met by wild applause, and as ours starts to move, the roar gets louder. I stay "stone-faced," as Fanta put it, and thrust my fist in the air a few times. I don't know how they like it, because I can't tell who they're applauding for. Maybe they're running on adrenaline.

The chariots arrange in a semi-circle facing the enormous crowd. A flicker in my peripheral vision catches my eye, and I turn to see fire! I hear a gasp and I know that Cato has seen it too. But as my eyes adjust, I see that the District Twelve tributes are perfectly fine. I don't know how, but they're waving and smiling and holding hands. Huh.

A papery man who I assume is President Snow comes out and gives us an unnecessarily long welcome. He reminds me of Umea. On the screen above him is the burning District Twelve Chariot, mostly, with a few quick shots of the other chariots. "I thought they were supposed to show all of us," I whisper to Cato.

"They are," he says, through gritted teeth.

Some awful song starts playing as we start to move again. It rings a bell in the back of my head. The anthem? Yes, that would make sense. The Panem national anthem.

We get back into the dark area behind the grand doors. Fanta rushes over, faithfully trailed by Darlee and an ancient woman who must be Cato's stylist. Fanta kisses me on the cheek. "Marvelous," she says. "Simply marvelous."

But I think it's all a show. All eyes are glued on the District Twelve chariot, just as they were during the ceremonies. I watch the tributes, a short blonde boy and a taller brunette, talk together. And then she kisses him on the cheek. I'm taken aback by that. We're going into an arena to all kill each other, and she's flirting? I sneak a glance at Cato to see his reaction, but he's talking to Glimmer.

I casually pretend to keep looking around, but I lean a little closer and strain my ears to hear their conversation.

"I think, Cato…it might be better if…maybe…I mean, if you look at the situation…" I can't tell if my hearing is faulty or if flawless Glimmer is really having trouble finding the words. It's clear to me that she's trying to break up with him, and it must occur to Cato, too: "I know what you're saying, and you're probably right. I'm cool with it."

I try to ignore the flutter of excitement that pops up. It's not like Cato's going to date me—I mean, we're both going into the Hunger Games, and that's the reason he just dumped Glimmer. Isn't it?

I shake my head to and clear it. Why does this always happen around Cato? To distract myself, I look back at the District Twelve tributes. But they've already left, back to their rooms, I guess. I think I'll follow their lead. I hop down from the chariot and tell Umea that I'm going.

My room is huge and high-tech, with a fancy shower and a bed with a mattress almost four times as thick as the one back home. It feels a little off, and again I get the feeling that I'm being watched. I probably am. Which is why I almost decide not to clean my knife—it's covered in dust and I'm afraid it'll rust—but that fear gets the better of me and I pull it out of my boot. Who cares if they see it? I'm a psycho.

I take extra care cleaning my knife before replacing it my boot. There are a million drawers where I could store it, but something tells me I won't see it again if I don't keep it with me at all times.

The next morning an alarm clock wakes me. For a moment I don't know where I am, and then reality surfaces. Forty-eight hours ago I was in District Two, a place I was just beginning to call home, and now I'm going to die. In the Hunger Games, being watched by thousands of people.

Before this thought can push me back under the covers, Umea barges in. _Don't these doors have locks? _I think grumpily, glaring at Umea. She raises her eyebrows and launches into another mini-speech about respect. I tune her out until the important part: "Meet me at the elevator at ten." And then she's gone.

Ten? I glance at the clock. _6:34._ In other words, I have three more hours until I need to get up.

I order room service, an extravagant breakfast of eggs, sausage, bacon, pancakes, and juice, and then flop back into bed.

Light plays on the outside of my eyelids, making its way into my brain and slowly waking me up. I open my eyes and see four red numbers: _10:07._ Their meaning doesn't register for a moment, but when it does, I leap out of bed and yank on my training uniform. (Better than the ones back in Two—spandex.) I pull my hair back into a ponytail, do a quick check in the mirror, and then I'm out the door.

Cato is leaning against the wall and—shocker—smirking, and Umea is tapping her foot impatiently. I brace myself for an extra-long lecture about punctuality, but she just shakes her head as we step into the elevator. But just as soon as I think I'm off the hook, she starts, and doesn't stop until we hit the basement. Then she reluctantly shuts her mouth and lets us off.

"Thanks for that," says Cato as we walk down the hall to the main training area.

"For what?" I say.

Cato says, "You know, the hour-long lecture from Umea. She was chewing my ear off and counting down the minutes until she'd go drag you out of bed before you came."

I smile as we push open the doors. "Maybe you should've been late, too."

The training center is _amazing_. Mile-high ceilings, rock walls, ropes, every weapon you could think of, and more. In the middle of the room is the cluster of tributes, gathered around the head instructor, who introduces herself as Atala. She says we can go to any stations we want, but to listen to the advice our mentors gave us. I exchange a look with Cato. _What advice?_

But I guess this means we can go where ever we want. Cato makes a beeline for the spears, but I take a different tactic.

I'd done some thinking last night. Weapons and fighting is all important stuff, but the real point of the games is the people. The tributes. They're my enemies, and I should get to know them. Their strengths and weaknesses.

I go in order, starting with Glimmer. She and the boy from District One, Marvel I think, are shooting arrows at dummies. Marvel seems to kind of know what he's doing, but Glimmer is completely clueless. Not to mention she keeps "accidentally" stumbling into him and giggling.

I move on before I puke.

I quickly glance at Cato, already aware that he's extremely proficient with a spear, and then I keep going.

The girl from Three is tall and strong. She's wrestling the boy from her district and beating him every time. But then, he's pale and wiry, not what you'd call tough at all.

The boy from Four is small. I feel bad for him, because he's floating awkwardly between stations without actually doing anything. But then I remember: this is good. He will be an easy kill.

The girl from Five catches my eye before I can scope out the boy. She has shiny red hair and is maneuvering around the girl from Eight almost elegantly. The other girl has curly dirty blonde hair and seems completely baffled by the redhead's dance. I laugh under my breath. She'll be easy, too. But the redhead might be a contender.

I keep looking around and spot a few talents, but nothing huge until the boy from Eleven. And he really is huge. He must be over six feet and weigh two hundred pounds. He beat the tall girl from Three at wrestling in two seconds flat, and then proceeds to toss a thirty-pound weight at her like it was nothing. I make a mental note not to cross him and look for the girl from his district.

It takes me a while, but I finally find her perched up in the rafters. I remember her from the reaping videos, the tiny girl I felt sorry for. That same feeling of guilt tries to surface, but I push it away, telling myself that it's good. She'll be easy to take down.

She's staring intently at something, and I follow her gaze to the last tributes. The short blonde boy and the brunette. I figure now is as good a time as any to find out about them, so I saunter over to the station next to theirs and watch the boy paint himself.

I plan to only stay a short while, but their conversation interests me. I noticed that they'd moved around the gym together, constantly laughing and talking. It's a strange strategy and I want to know more.

By the end of half an hour I can tell one thing: the blonde boy is smitten with the girl. Katniss, I think. Her feelings are harder to figure out—sometimes she seems to like him, but others she seems completely irritated with him. I give up and, being done with my evaluations, go to think it over during some knife throws. Cato's there.

He can throw a knife, but not like he can a spear. Finally, something I can beat him at. I copy his trademark smirk as I grab three knives in one hand and hit three moving targets in a row, rapid fire style, right in the hearts. I turn back to him just in time to see him quickly smooth over the shocked expression on his face. I smirk again and brush past him to get more knives.

Just as I'm starting to enjoy myself, a hand roughly grabs my arm and turns me around. I look into that pair of electric blue eyes and see something I never thought I'd see in them—fear.

"Where'd you learn to throw like that?" asks Cato, and I see Glimmer, Marvel and the girl from Four all leaning in.

"Just…around," I say casually, spinning a knife in my fingers.

"Can you tell me where I'd find 'around'? 'Cause I gotta get there!" Marvel nearly shouts, and Cato shoots him a look.

"Well, you can join our alliance," says Cato, and I realize this is the second time he's asked this. And I'm going to accept this time.

"Sure," I say.

Glimmer claps her hands. "Yay! Let's practice together!"

She grabs my arm before I can tell her that practicing with her is the last thing I want to do.


	14. Chapter 14

During lunch on the second day of training, I'm talking with Kady, the girl from District Four, when Glimmer plops down next to me. I expect her to say something like, "Girl talk? Count me in!" but she's staring at me with an intensity I didn't know lived in that brain of hers.

"You were at Cato's party that night," she says, as if it's just dawning on her. "And you were with him. Outside. I remember you."

I nod slowly. "Yup. Good memory, Glimmer."

Her eyes narrow. "What were you two doing?"

This takes me by surprise. This is usually the part of the conversation where Glimmer loses interest and decides to go chat up Marvel or the boy from Eight, who she seems to have a crush on. But this topic apparently provides more interest for her, and she pursues it.

"We…we were just talking," I stammer, wondering why my lying skills have suddenly abandoned me. "That's all."

I almost expect her to see through me, but I guess I should never overestimate Glimmer. The intensity leaves her and she giggles. "That's what I thought." Then she leaps up and rushes over to something or someone, probably some boy.

I turn back to Kady, who is looking at me with eyebrows raised. I look back at her.

She gives a knowing smile and says, "I thought you had a thing for Cato, but I thought I was imagining things because romance is the last thing on anyone's minds right now. But Glimmer just proved I was right all along! I've gotta tell him."

Kady is gone before I can stop her, and I know it'd be no use anyway. If I've learned one thing over the past twenty-four hours, it's that when Kady wants something, she gets it. And when she sets her mind to doing something, there is. No. Stopping her.

I decide my best move is to laugh at him when he asks me about it. That's what will have to happen. I can't tell him what I really feel because _I_ don't know what I feel, and even if I did, there will always be the Hunger Games as the big obstacle between us. So I stand and go over to hand to hand combat, hoping to find someone my size who wants to fight. But, of course, Cato's standing there with a stupid grin on his face as Kady walks away. He just beat her, I guess.

I grab Kady's arm as she passes me. "You…you really told him?" I ask, hoping she got some compassion before it was too late. She gives me a sly smile. "I told him someone in our alliance had a crush on him. I think I'll let him figure out who."

I breathe a sigh of relief. Now all I have to do is convince him it's not me. Which shouldn't be hard—he'll want to believe it's Glimmer or Kady.

I figure Glimmer is my best bet, since they dated. I sidle up to Cato and say, "Did Kady tell you about Glimmer?"

The smile slides off his face at my words, and for a split second he looks disappointed. Maybe I imagined it. And then a smirk takes its place. "Yeah. Glimmer's still into me, I know. But I ended it and she needs to accept it."

I want to point out that actually, Glimmer broke up with him, but I figure that wouldn't help my case. So instead I say, "Wanna fight?"

He takes a step back, still smirking. "I don't want to hurt you, Clove."

"Not a chance."

He lunges at me before calling the start and sweeps me off my feet. He carries me on his shoulder over to the knives and picks one up. Then he straddles my waist and says, "If this was the arena, you'd be dead."

I roll my eyes. "If this was the arena, there wouldn't be a giant rack of knives right there."

He grins. "You know, for a crazy person, you sure do make a lot of sense sometimes."

That night in bed, I can still hear Cato's words, and I remember my psycho routine. It's harder to keep up during training. But tomorrow is the last day, when I have my private session with the Gamemakers, and that's all I'm thinking about right now.

* * *

The next morning I practice so hard that I nearly pass out when they call lunch. I drag myself over to the table, panting, and down a gallon of water.

After ten or so minutes, they call Marvel. We all wish him luck, but as soon as he's gone, Glimmer and Kady start whispering.

"What do you think he'll do?" asks Glimmer, almost giddily.

"Dunno. Spear throwing, maybe. Swords."

"You think he can pull a ten?"

"No way. Nine at the very most."

They keep at it until Glimmer gets called, and then Kady turns to me. I can't help but answer when she asks me what score I think Glimmer can get.

"No more than a six. I mean, what does she _do_, really?"

Kady giggles, something I've never heard her do before. "I'm saying five."

All this gossiping feels so normal. Like something we'd do back home, where there are no Hunger Games. But it also gets me thinking: What will they say when I leave? What score will they bet on for me? But more importantly, when we're in the arena, will this behind-each-others-backs stuff happen? Because in there, it could be fatal.

Cato goes next and we wish him luck. "Ten," I say, before Kady can get a word in. "At the least."

They call me next, leaving Kady as the last of our group. I walk down the hall, wondering what knife tricks I'll show them. Should I do some things with a sword? No, you can't really do that by yourself. Just knives will do.

I step into the room and immediately head for the knives. I take a tiny dagger, a medium-sized one, and a big one, almost like a sword. I look up at the panel of Gamemakers and give them a huge grin. Some of them look surprised, others smile back and some take notes on a pad of paper.

I take five knives in my hand, the very most you can fit, and rapidly hit every human dummy in the heart. Then I run backwards and hit a few bulls-eyes, climb the ropes and hit more from up there, even do one of Flannery's useless back flip tricks. At least it looks cool.

By the end I'm panting, but the Gamemakers don't seem to notice. Most of them are smiling, which must be a good sign. "Thank you, Miss Fuhrman. You are dismissed," says one of them, and I give them a salute for good measure before I walk out.

I go back to my room and collapse onto my bed, completely exhausted. I don't wake up until Umea bangs on my door and calls me to dinner. I get up, shower, and throw on some not-drenched-in-sweat clothes.

Cato, Umea, and Davin are sitting around the dinner table, already stuffing themselves. I'm hungry, too, so I dig in, and we all sit silently for a moment, listening to the sounds of chewing (Cato's doing it with his mouth open). Then Davin speaks up. "How were your private sessions?"

Cato's staring at me, so I start uneasily. "Fine, I guess. I threw some knives. They seemed to like it."

Davin nods. "Okay. Cato?"

He plays with the edge of the table cloth. I'm not at all used to seeing him without his air of confidence. "Great," he mutters. "I tossed a spear."

I raise my eyebrows at him when he finally looks up. He just shrugs.

We finish dinner and join the stylists on the couch, ready to see all the scores. Cato sits down next to me, which surprises me at first, but I guess he just wants a good view of the screen. I'm not complaining.

Marvel gets an eight, Glimmer a seven. Cato seems as surprised by this as I am. Then they're showing his score—a ten. _Just as I thought,_ I want to say to him, but decide better of it.

And then me, a nine. I got a nine. People congratulate me, just like they did Cato, but really, neither score was extraordinary. In fact, none of them are, until the very last one—Katniss, the girl from Twelve, gets an eleven. I feel Cato tense up beside me and a murmur of astonishment ripples through the room. Even without having lived here for very long, I can tell that this is a first, especially for District Twelve.

We all get congratulated again before the adults head off to bed. But I'm not tired since my nap, and I sit on the couch a moment longer, thinking things over. A voice interrupts my thoughts.

"Clove."

I turn to see Cato staring at me, that same strange look in his eyes as the day I met him. I still can't place it, but he looks much better when he doesn't smirk.

"What?" I ask, slightly harsher sounding than I intended.

"I need to tell you something."

_Where is this going?_ "Okay…"

He takes a deep breath. "I know this isn't exactly…the best time, but I have to tell you."

Now I'm seriously freaked out. Before I know what's happening, he leans in and presses his lips to mine. I almost break away, but I get this electric tingly feeling all through me as he pulls me closer. And then I don't ever want it to stop. I wrap my arms around him. I could live in this moment forever, with Cato's warmth surrounding me, no Hunger Games to worry about, no nothing. Just warmth.

But then he pulls away, still with his arms around me, and looks into my eyes. The look in his takes me by surprise—they're full of sadness. Unbearable, awful, terrible sadness.

I open my mouth to ask what's wrong, but he presses his mouth against mine again before I can get a word out. This time when he pulls away, he puts his lips by my ear and whispers, "My father killed your parents."

**Clato's first kiss! Sorry it took so long...oh yeah, and the giant revelation...Tell me what you think if anyone is still reading this thing! Zellie XOXO**


	15. Chapter 15

I leap away from the couch as if it's burning. Those words—they're terrible. How dare he say that? It must be true, though. I can see it in his eyes. Now I know where that terrible sadness is coming from.

I slowly sit back down, a safe distance from Cato. My body is numb. I know that later I will brake down in tears, be so angry that I could kill. Right now I just want to lean into Cato's arms and let him hold me—but I know I can't do that. Because of his family, mine is dead. I can never trust him. Not now, not ever.

"Why didn't you ever tell me?" I whisper, not meeting his eyes.

"Oh, Clove," he says quietly, "I couldn't. I couldn't stand to have you hate me."

Oh, yeah. That's another emotion that will come along later. "But why not? Why do you even care?"

"Because, Clove."

"That's not enough, Cato. Why didn't you tell me?" There's anger edging my voice now, and I know it won't be long until I'm completely overwhelmed.

He stays silent for a moment, and then, "My entire life has been devoted to training for the Games. That's all I ever cared about. That's probably the only reason my parents had me in the first place." He takes a deep breath, and I can tell he's about to cry. "And girls…they were all just part of the show. I was a tough guy, and tough guys have girlfriends. None of it meant anything."

He pauses again, and I feel emotions swelling up inside me. Tears come to my eyes and I want to curl up somewhere and sob. But strangely enough, I can't bring myself to hate Cato.

"Until I met you, Clove. You looked so beautiful that first day I met you, and I had to cover my feelings. But it got harder. So I had to stop…being with you…at all. After the party, I mean. But Clove, I can't do it. You're not like any girl I've ever met. It might sound cheesy, but…" He trails off, leaving me shocked by his confession.

I bring my knees up to my chin and start to cry. There are just too many feelings inside me right now, and I can't hold them all. Cato comes and puts his arms around me. I know I should push him away, but I can't.

I wake up the next morning feeling warm and content. I see Cato with his head on my shoulder, arms around me, snoring slightly, and last night comes rushing back to me in all its glory.

All my feelings are still there, but it's a tangle of emotion that I'm not going to try and unravel. I'll be dead in a week; why bother?

I gently shake Cato awake and he stares at me for a second, and I can tell he's remembering last night, too. Then he smirks. "All your dreams came true, huh?"

It makes things seem more real, somehow, having regular ol' obnoxious Cato back. But it stings a little, too. It was nice to see his heart for once, and it seems a little harsh, telling me all my dreams came true when he just reopened the wound of my parents' death.

But he seems oblivious to all of this as he pulls me in for another kiss. I don't object, because I do like Cato. And I think if I didn't have anybody right now, I really would go insane.

"Cato," I say, my mouth still pressed against his.

"Mmm?" he responds, refusing to break apart.

"Cato, we can't tell anybody about this."

He finally pulls out and looks at me. "Why not? It could be our strategy. The lovers of District Two! People would feel bad and sponsor us."

I shake my head. "District Twelve's already using that. And we don't need it. We got high scores, you're strong. That's what people will sponsor us for."

He nods reluctantly. "And Clove, I'm really sorry about your parents," he whispers, looking at the floor. "My father's head Peacekeeper, and they threatened to tell the world about the Hunger Games. So he…he had them executed. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay," I say quietly. "It's not your fault."

Just then Umea comes bursting in. "There you are!" she shouts, panting. "We have been looking _all over_ for the two of you! Hurry up and have breakfast, we need to prepare you for your interviews!" She grabs our hands and drags us to the dining room. The food all smells delicious, but my stomach seems to have shrunk to the size of a pea. I don't eat anything.

Umea drags me into my room and puts me in some high heels. I've worn them before, back home, so it's not that hard. I trip over the ball gown she gives me a few times, but other than that, it goes fine.

She actually makes me walk around with a book on my head, like in the princess movies. It's harder than it looks, especially in heels.

Next is smiling. We start with that, at least, but Umea gives up after trying to get me to really smile, then fake smile, then just telling me to lift my cheek muscles. None of it works, so we skip it, telling me to relay to Davin that I cannot smile.

I pick at a roll during lunch, gradually eating the whole thing during the half hour. I don't make eye contact with Cato. I'm afraid of what will happen if I do.

After lunch, I follow Davin into the living room and sit across from him on the couch. He says, "Alright, crazy girl. We all know how we'll present you."

"We do?" I say.

Davin grins. "Yes. You're fierce, and maybe not quite right in the head."

I nod. "Oh, okay. So if we know, why am I here?"

"To practice, of course."

And practice, we do. For nearly five hours. Question after question after question, all needing to be answered by a crazy girl. It gets to the point where the answers come automatically, and I feel as if I've actually become this girl. Perhaps that's what Davin was going for.

He stops at six o'clock and says, "Alright. Go meet Fanta and get on your interview dress, and be back here by six thirty."

I go off and find Fanta. She's got a strapless orangey-pink dress for me, with mesh-type stuff around the top and slightly puffy skirt down to just above my knees. More girly than I would have liked, but oh well.

They do my hair in a high ponytail, with some lip gloss but otherwise minimal makeup. Then I go back out and find Cato already waiting by the elevator in a striking gray suit, Umea beside him. I stare at my hands on the ride down, feeling his eyes on me the whole time but refusing to meet his gaze.

All the tributes look like us—fancy clothes, fancy hair, makeup. We line up according to district, girls first. Glimmer gets her name called and giggles her way out on stage, waving at everybody. Her gold tutu is barely covering her butt, and her blonde hair has been curled and let down. She looks gorgeous.

We watch on the screen above the doorway. She giggles at everything, but she does have some serious answers. When Caesar Flickerman asks about her life in District One, she says, "My family and I were really close. I…I just have to get home to them. I love them more than anything." I almost feel a shred of compassion for you, but then she blows a kiss into the crowd and says, "Miss you!" and I realize her parents are sitting in the front row.

Marvel goes next, but I don't hear anything he says. All I'm listening for is my name…and there it is. I walk out onstage and am surprised by how confident I feel.

I take my seat next to Caesar and answer all his questions automatically. Most of them are ones I've practically been given a script for by Davin, but then he gets to the part about my family and I wonder what to do. There's no way I'm telling them my parents got killed by Peacekeepers—the Capitol would mark me down to be destroyed by some "accident" in the arena. But telling them my parents are dead…that could help my case.

"So Clove, what's your family like?" asks Caesar.

"Well, I'm an only child," I answer after a moment. "And my parents died in a train accident. So not really much family to speak of."

Everything is silent for a second, and then Caesar says, "I'm sorry to hear that."

I shrug. "It's not a big deal. I was so little when it happened. I can take care of myself."

The rest of the interview goes smoothly, and I think I did well. Making people think I've been taking care of myself for years was a good move.

When I get off the stage, Cato brushes past me and drops a folded piece of paper into my hands. I unfold it and roll my eyes at the contents.

_You look hot._

I join Marvel and Glimmer in a seating area and they look at me carefully. "I didn't know about your parents," says Marvel. "Sorry."

I shrug and repeat what I said onstage, almost word for word. Then Cato comes in and we all sit together, making fun of the other interviews. Kady joins us eventually, and we all have a laugh when the District Twelve boy confesses his love for Katniss. I give Cato an I-told-you-so look.

Then we all disperse, going off to our respective floors. Cato and I stand in the hall outside the elevator for a moment. Then he takes me by surprise, kissing me.

It's more heated than our kisses last night. He pushes me up against the wall and I put my arms around his neck, drawing him close. But it can't go on forever. I pull away before Umea or Davin sees us.

"You look so sexy in that dress," Cato says unevenly, breathing hard. I smile and look down at the floor. He puts a hand under my chin and brings my face up. "In the Games, I'll be right beside you. I won't let you get hurt."

I know this is an impossible promise to keep, but I don't say anything. It was sweet. "Goodnight, Cato," I say, standing on tiptoe to give him a kiss on the cheek.

I get ready for bed and fall asleep much easier than I expected. I guess that's because I'm thinking about Cato, not the Hunger Games at all.

The next morning I wake up and stuff myself at breakfast before my body can realize I have no appetite. I need the energy. Davin has to pull me away from the table, and in the shower I feel like I'm going to puke.

Umea leads me and Cato to the roof and we board a hovercraft that's heading to the arena. A woman comes and inserts a tracker into our arms. Cato gives me a gentle kiss on the lips just before we land, and I try my best not to burst into tears.

Then we go our separate ways in the catacombs under the arena. I get simple boots, pants, and a thin jacket to wear, and Fanta puts my hair into a high ponytail.

"Good luck, darling," she says, with tears in her eyes, before giving me a hug.

Then a woman's voice tells me to step onto a round plate at the center of the room. I do, and immediately get enclosed in a glass cylinder. I wave goodbye to Fanta as I get swept up into the arena.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!" says Claudius Templesmith, and I nearly step off the plate before reminding myself that I would get blown to smithereens.

The sixty seconds are the longest of my life. I count down in my head—_five, four, three, two, one_…my counting must be off because nothing happens. I wait for a moment, fidgeting.

And then the gong sounds.

**Okay...no one has reviewed since like chapter 10 so I'm not sure it's worth it to update anymore. If anybody still cares, please review! Zellie XOXO**


	16. Chapter 16

Instead of slowing down, like time is supposed to do at climactic moments, life seems to speed up. Glimmer, who was standing next to me, has already sprinted to the Cornucopia and grabbed a silver bow and arrow. Cato and Marvel are on a killing spree, stabbing people left and right with spears they must have already picked up. I figure that if I don't get my butt moving, I'm gonna get a knife in my back.

Speaking of knives, I need to get my hands on some. I dash to the Cornucopia, picking up useful looking odds and ends as I go, until I find a knife. And then another, and another, and there a pack of six or seven. I grab them all, feeling like a little kid on Christmas.

I get a grip on one with a leather handle, not planning on killing anyone but just to have a weapon. And then I see Cato stab a boy in the back as he runs past him. The boy who was apparently grappling with Katniss for a backpack. And suddenly, a dark feeling overtakes me. The girl looks to vulnerable in that moment, without her precious boyfriend, like a deer caught in headlights. Almost like she knows her life is about to end.

So I tighten my grip on the knife and charge. Somewhere, so far back in my mind, I know it's not right. But something has snapped inside me.

I throw the knife and it is inches from her head when she raises her pack and it lodges in that instead of her brain. _Great, _I think. _Now I'm down a knife and she has an extra one._

The dark feeling slowly ebbs away and I realize what almost happened. I look down at my hands, thinking about what they just did. Attempted murder in cold blood. What if she hadn't raised her pack? What if she'd died, right then and there? What would I have done with myself?

But then I turn and see Marvel jam a spear into some poor girl's back, and I realize I better quit being so squeamish because if I want to live, I'm gonna have to do some killing.

Cato appears beside me and grabs my arm. "Let's go," he says, his eyes darting all around as he drags me away from the forest. "Why? Where are we going?" I ask, with no answer. He just keeps pulling me away, towards the big open field by the lake.

Finally he pushes me into a sitting position right next to the water. "Stay here," he says, already starting to run back to the bloodbath in front of the Cornucopia. I stand almost immediately. No way am I waiting here like a sitting duck until the grown-ups have finished their work. Anger boils up in me. This is exactly how my parents treated me.

I sprint back to the battle and second-guess this decision as I look at the sea of corpses before me. I can't kill anyone and that means I'm just going to stand around waiting for someone to come at me. I'm debating what to do when a body catches my eye.

There on the ground, about ten feet from me, lays a mass of blood and brown hair that I recognize. Kady's face peeks up through her matted hair, eyes glassy. I dash over to her and shake her shoulders. I brush the hair away from her face. "Kady! Can you hear me? Kady! Come on!"

She blinks and coughs, and I heave a sigh of relief. But then she looks me in the eye and says, "Marvel. He stabbed me. Don't trust him."

I open my mouth, but close it again. There's nothing to say. As Kady's eyes close, I know why she told me. I can see from the cut on her throat that it must have been extremely painful to speak at all, but she didn't let it show. She never let her tough shell break.

I pat Kady's cold cheek as a chorus of cannon fires mark the many lives that are still being taken. I feel the ice in my stomach building as Kady's breath leaves her, and I know that she will be avenged, too. Preferably with Marvel's slow and painful death.

My determination peaks as I spot him laughing at the small boy from District Four as he pins the poor thing to the side of the Cornucopia. The boy is begging to be let free and Marvel is laughing in his face. That seems a little cruel, even for the Games. But maybe I'm just soft.

I sprint over to him. "Let him go," I say in a low voice. Marvel looks at me and I see a glint in his eye, a glint that tells me I'm not the real psycho here. Then he bashes the boy's head into the Cornucopia and grins at me. "There," he says. "I let him go. Now let's move, little girl." He grabs my arm, tight, and jerks me along, tripping people on the way. We eventually reach the edge of the woods. "Alright, Shorty. I saw you chasing that Twelve girl and you were serious there. So follow your instincts. _Get _her."

For a moment I consider it. But then reality kicks in: that girl probably has way more experience in forests than I do, otherwise she wouldn't have gone in there. And, it occurs to me, Marvel must realize that too, and he's just trying to pick me off and get one step closer to winning.

"Nice try, Marvel," I sneer, wiggling out of his grip. "But I've been training for this, and I'm gonna win it. Go trick someone dimmer into dying. Hey, there's Glimmer!"

Apparently he falls for this, because the second he turns his head I dash off, hoping to find Cato and beg him to break connections with Marvel. But all I find are dead bodies. Glimmer and Cato must have gone to set up camp, or maybe chase a few weaker tributes. But most of the smaller ones must have gotten the message and beat it—the luckier ones, at least.

I kick around a fairly corpse-free area for any valuable things that might have been left behind, but all I come up with is a plastic bag, a toothbrush, and a sock. I'd keep the toothbrush if it wasn't covered in blood.

Then I see a blonde boy in the distance. _Cato!_ I think, but the figure's too short. I try to come up with other blonde tributes, but the only one I can think of is Peeta, from District Twelve. The one who's in love with Katniss. And what would he still be doing here?

I glance around, hoping to see Marvel or Cato there to take care of him, but everyone seems to have disappeared. I sigh and tighten my grip on the knife in my hand, ready to throw it the second he gets into range. I move behind the Cornucopia for cover, peeking around the edge, and as soon as I can see him clearly enough I toss the knife. But as it leaves my fingers I feel it spin, the wrong trajectory. I'm not used to this knife. And sure enough, it lands a good five feet in front of him. He jumps back and whips his head around, and I know I've blunted the element of surprise. So I leap out from behind the Cornucopia and throw another knife at him. This one jabs into his arm and I hear him give a sharp scream, but then he pulls it out and throws it back at me. He has terrible aim and I catch the handle as it whizzes past my head. I throw it back at him and it's going straight for his heart when he ducks, and it only grazes his ear.

I pull another knife and am all set to throw when he runs up to me. _What? He's supposed to be running away! _I think indignantly. He pants and clutches at the bloody gash on his arm. "Wait," he says breathlessly. I have my knife poised to stab into his chest at the slightest movement. "Wait," he says again. "I'm an ally. Cato sent me back here to get you and bring you to the lake."

I scoff. "You expect me to believe that, Lover Boy? Sure, I'll follow you to the lake. It seems perfectly plausible that we would team up with some worthless Twelver. Oh, and isn't it convenient that they sent _you_ back here to get me? How dumb to you think I am?"

He gives a weak smile. "I thought you'd say that. Well, if you want to stay here, fine. But camp's by the lake." He hobbles off.

I decide to wait for a little bit. If Peeta was telling the truth, hopefully Cato will come get me. And if he was lying, he's an idiot.

The sun starts to sink over the horizon and I think the Gamemakers are cursing me for staying near the dead bodies. They need a fleet of hovercrafts to come and carry them off, but they can't if I'm still there. So I decide to go down to the lake.

I slowly make my way down, keeping a bold face on, in case I'm on camera. When I reach the edge of the lake, there's no missing our camp: a huge pile of food and supplies is standing thirty meters away from the tents and sleeping bags. A boy, from District Three I think, is kneeling next to the supply mountain and digging around in the dirt. Marvel stands, over him, yelling insults.

I make my way over to Cato, who's sitting by the lake. I lower myself beside him and take off my shoes, dipping my toes in the water. He turns to me and I think I see his eyes light up. Just a teensy bit…or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

"What's Marvel doing to that poor boy?" I say, nodding towards the ashen-skinned kid, who can't be more than thirteen. Cato laughs. "Oh, Clove, it's genius. That's Segrin. He's from Three, and he would kiss Marvel's ass if it got him two more seconds to live. He must have been planning this, because he came up to me and said he knew a foolproof way to protect our stuff. I thought he was just putting on a show, but then he told me he can reactivate the explosives underground. The ones that blow you up if you step off your plate too soon. So we dragged all this stuff over here and Marvel's tearing him up while he does it. I can't imagine what'll happen to the kid if he screws up."

I raise my eyebrows. "Wow. And…one more thing. May I ask why the hell Peeta's still alive?"

Cato scowls. "That was Marvel's idea. He thinks we can lure the girl out if we have her boyfriend, but I'm not so sure. I don't think they really like each other."

"Yes, they do. At least, he likes her. Loves, even. But she's harder to read. I don't know if she'd risk her life to come looking for him."

Cato nods and we stare out at the lake. "Marvel really hates that girl," Cato says. "She threw a rock at him or something. It hit him on the shoulder and didn't even leave a mark, but he totally flipped out."

I nod. "Yeah. He told me to go into the woods and get her."

Cato's head whips around. "He did _what?_"

I grab his hand. "Cato, it's okay. It's not like I did it or anything. But…I do think we shouldn't trust him." I pause a moment, searching Cato's eyes for the trust I need. "Kady said…she was dying and she said…that he stabbed her."

Cato looks away and shakes his head. "Clove, cut the crap. Kady's the one who's been trying to get rid of him. They hate each other."

"Exactly! So he stabbed her at that massacre back there when he thought no one would notice! Don't you see, Cato?" My voice softens as I turn his head towards me. Our faces are inches apart. "Please, Cato. I trust Kady, and you trust me. Don't you?"

He seems to be waging an inner battle. Then he shakes his head and stands up. "Sorry, Clove. I can't believe you about this." His eyes are cold as they look down at me, and as he walks away, I feel the true weight of the situation fall onto my shoulders: I am in the Hunger Games, and there is no one I can trust.

**I know that no one is reading this story anymore, but I updated for me. If anyone still happens to be there, PLEEEEEEEEEASE REVIEW! You have NO IDEA how much it would mean to me! Zellie XOXO**


	17. Chapter 17

I lay in my sleeping bag, staring up at the stars. Are they the same stars as the ones in District Two? Or a projection by the Gamemakers? I search for the constellations I know. I find the big dipper and Orion's belt, which comforts me a little bit. Maybe they are real. It gives me a tie to reality—life outside the arena.

But it's all a distraction. I know that I won't be able to sleep a wink tonight, because the moment I let my mind drift, it snaps back to Cato. I've never felt so alone in my life. The loose connection I made with Kady has been brutally severed, and Glimmer's empty head makes it hard to be friends. I could try with Peeta, but something tells me it wouldn't last. And Marvel is definitely out of the question.

Cato…I hadn't realized it until he kissed me, but I had wanted those lips on mine since the day we met. And when we were together, he made up for everything. My dead parents, my nonexistent friends, the Hunger Games. He makes me forget it all. Now that he's gone, it all comes pounding back, and I can't bear it.

I accept the fact that I'm not going to get any sleep tonight and decide to go for a walk. But just as I'm wiggling out of the sleeping bag, I hear a shout from the tent next to me. Marvel bursts out, followed closely by Cato. Peeta comes out of the tent he shares with Segrin. I stand up. "What?" I ask, and Marvel just points at something behind me. I turn my head to see a ribbon of smoke barely visible against the dark sky, and below that, a glowing orange spot in the woods. Some idiot started a fire.

I turn back to see Marvel yelling at Segrin. "You stay here, worthless shit! You'd just be a ball and chain to us. You couldn't squash a fly. Be thankful we need you for those explosives, or you'd be dead in a second!" He's practically spitting in the poor kid's face by the end of it. Glimmer emerges from her tent wearing a massive fur parka. She comes over to me and I hear her giggle, but I can't see her mouth above the fluffy collar.

"Don't you love it?" Her voice is muffled through the fur. "I found it when we were going through the supplies."

I nod, distracted. The boys have already started moving. I follow them, with Glimmer waddling along behind. They flip on the flashlights when we get into the trees, and from there, it's not a long walk to the poor girl who lit the fire.

Marvel sneaks up behind her and jumps on her, pinning her to a tree. I don't know what District she's from, but she's small, with mousy brown hair and a terrible bruise on her cheek. I feel bad as Marvel draws his dagger and starts carving up her arm.

He lifts it up and draws the knife down her arm, pushing deep, making blood pour out. The girl goes chalk white and grits her teeth, but only a tiny whimper escapes her lips. This is enough for Marvel. "Scared, little girl?" He snarls at her. "I'll make it end." He raises his arm to slit her throat, but then he turns around, an evil grin on his face.

"I have an idea," he says, in a voice that can only suggest terrible things. "Little Shorty over here hasn't killed anyone yet. How about we give her the honor of taking this scum?"

I open my mouth to protest, but I realize it's futile. If I say no, I'll be marked as an easy target by Marvel, and might be dead by morning. So I slowly pull my knife out of my boot and approach the girl. I see resignation in her eyes, not fear. _I'll make it quick,_ I think as I raise the knife. _I'm not a monster. I won't enjoy this._

I bring it down and draw it across her throat. The light leaves her eyes and you can just _tell_ that she's not alive anymore, by the absolute stillness of her body, a stillness that would be impossible in life.

Cato is the first to move. We all follow in his footsteps a split second later, moving through the trees back to camp. But after less then a minute, he stops and says, "Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?"

I'd been thinking about this, too. "I'd think so. There's nothing stopping them from picking her up."

"Unless she's not dead," replies Cato.

Everyone looks at me. "I—I think she's dead," I stutter, staring at my boots. "You all saw me…cut her."

"If she's dead, then where's the cannon?" Pipes up Glimmer.

Marvel nods. "We definitely should have heard it by now."

Everyone turns to me again. "I don't know," I say miserably.

Then Peeta speaks up for the first time. "We're wasting time. I'm going to check." He heads off before anyone can stop him.

As soon as he's out of earshot, Glimmer starts gossiping, as usual. "Why do we need him?"

Cato sighs. "That's what I was thinking."

"Come on! He'll lead us right to her!" Marvel hisses.

"Why is that so important?" I ask.

Marvel laughs, but it's humorless. "Shorty, in case you didn't notice, she got an _eleven_ in training. That's higher than you. Or me. Or anyone, actually. So I'd say it's pretty important to take her out."

"Fine," I mutter.

Then Peeta reappears. "Was she dead?" asks Cato. "No," says Peeta, "but she is now."

We start moving back towards camp, and cannon fire punctuates Peeta's words. As I collapse into my sleeping bag, exhaustion takes over, and my eyelids sink closed before I can think about anything at all.

* * *

I wake early the next morning, still tired by grateful for what little sleep I got. I walk over to our food supply and do the little dance Segrin showed us to get to the food without exploding. I take some dried fruit and a slice of bread, and then head over to the lake for water.

I spot a blonde boy sitting by the edge of the lake a little farther down, and the thought of making up with Cato brings me toward him. But when he looks up to me, I see that it's not Cato. It's Peeta.

I'm too close to just turn and walk away, so I sit down beside him. "Early riser?" I ask.

He laughs softly. "I didn't sleep last night."

"Oh really? Worried about Katniss?"

He closes his eyes. "Her, and…"

I gently nudge his shoulder. "And what?"

"I…I don't know. It's dumb."

I laugh out loud and throw my hands in the air. "Want to know what's dumb? This country. These people for enjoying watching children kill each other. No one can judge you now."

He turns to me and smiles. "That's true, you know. I just…people in these games…they turn into monsters. They kill without thinking anymore. I don't want to be like that. I want to be _me,_ whether I'm dead or alive."

I stare out across the lake. He practically read my mind about what I was going through last night. "Peeta…that's…that's exactly what I was thinking, last night. When…you know."

"Really? Katniss didn't get it."

I look into his crystal blue eyes and for a split second, I feel something. He understands what I'm going through when no one else does.

"We're having a meeting," snarls a voice from behind us. I turn my head to see Cato, arms crossed, face stony. I snap up and brush dirt off my pants.

He's already started stalking away when I catch up with him. "Cato," I say, jogging to keep up with him. "Cato," I say again, more desperately. He stops abruptly and turns around. "What? What is it, Clove?"

I nearly bump into him, but stop just in time. I back up a little and look up at his face. "Cato, please," I whisper. "Don't be mad."

He breaks into a sarcastic grin. "Why would I be mad? Because you accuse my friend of murder and then go off with Lover Boy? No, of course I'm not mad!"

"Cato, please. I couldn't bear it if I lost you."

His face softens, just the tiniest bit. "Clove, I know. And I need you, too. But that's the point. One of us is going to lose the other, and we need to start accepting that."

He leans in and kisses me. His hand runs through my hair and the other cups my face. I put my arms around his neck, ready to deepen the kiss, but he pulls away. "Goodbye, Clove," he whispers.

**So sorry! I know this chapter is way too short. I'll update soon, I promise! Zellie XOXO**


	18. Chapter 18

I spend the rest of the day avoiding Cato, Peeta, Marvel and Glimmer. The only person I might want to talk to is Segrin, and he's been shunned by Marvel, who even I don't want to mess with.

Cato and Marvel go half-heartedly into the woods to look for targets, but everyone apparently had the sense to clear out. Glimmer spent the day polishing weapons and ranting to no one in particular about any number of things: boys she'd sleep with when she won; her district token, a ring, they'd confiscated; and an endless debate with herself over whether or not to go for a swim in the lake.

"I could. It'd be fun. But what if the Capitol put muttations in there? No…I'm sure they didn't. Why would they bother? You know what, I'm going to do it." She gets ankle-deep before she starts up again. "Ooh, but what if I'm not dry by nighttime? It gets _so_ cold. I could get hypothermia. But…I think I'd be dry by the time it gets dark. Clove, what do you think?"

I raise my head up from the journal I'd been writing in. "Uhhh…I think you should swim." She raises her eyebrows in worry. "But what if I'm not dry by nighttime?"

I scratch my ear. "Well, we could start a fire. And…don't swim in your clothes, so they'll be dry when you get out."

Her face lights up. "Oh yeah! Great idea. Thanks, Clove!"

She goes behind a tent to strip and I revel in the silence. I'd found a pencil and a brown cardboard journal in the "useless" supply pile that Marvel was going to throw in the lake, and I'd just started writing. About everything—anything that came to mind. I made a list of all the tributes we still had to face, their strengths and weaknesses, and a rough sketch of the arena. By the time Marvel and Cato come back, I've nearly filled up the whole thing.

"We didn't find anyone," Cato says glumly. Peeta starts a fire and we eat a hearty dinner of potatoes and deer meat.

_This is not how I imagined the Hunger Games, _I think as I snuggle down in my sleeping bag. Today I'd eaten three full meals, drawn a picture, and written in a journal. Glimmer had gone for a swim. I'm getting better fed in the arena than in District Two. It seems all wrong. The Games aren't supposed to be this easy.

A shout wakes me up. I open my eyes and look into pure blackness. But as soon as my eyes adjust to the dark, I see Cato, Marvel, Peeta and Glimmer in a huddle, pointing to the forest. I groggily turn my head and see smoke rising from the trees. My first thought is another idiot tribute, but there's too much smoke. And the orange glow is filling all the spaces between the trees. It's too big…

"Forest fire," I gasp as I join the others. "The Gamemakers set it."

"Well, what should we do?" asks Glimmer.

Cato shrugs. "Nothing. It can't reach us across the lake. Everybody just…go back to sleep."

And we do. Cato's taken the leader role away from Marvel without anybody realizing it. He's too easy to trust.

The next morning I wake to see everyone else already around the fire pit. I scarf down some bread and listen to their conversation. "She's the girl on fire. It's the Gamemakers' sense of humor. That fire was definitely aimed at her, and she's definitely injured from it. So let's hunt!"

Marvel's speech gets Cato and Glimmer on board. Peeta half-heartedly agrees, and I'm in no position to argue. I might as well paint a target on my back if I'm going challenge Marvel.

We gather our weapons and head into the woods. Marvel's bloodthirstiness slowly fades after hours in the woods. We split up and find each other again. We break for lunch, and by early evening everyone seems exhausted. We're on our way back to our campsite when Marvel finally, finally spots her.

"There she is!" Suddenly, all the vigor returns to our group as we speed after Katniss. She has a bad burn on her leg but manages to scale a tree anyway. We look up at her and she grins down at us. "How've you been?"

Marvel turns bright red and his mouth flaps open and closed like a fish. Cato meets my amused eyes and says, "Fine, thanks. And you?"

Katniss nods absently. "Good, good. A bit too warm for my taste, though." A sly grin creeps onto her face. "The air's better up here. Why don't you come up?"

"Think I will," says Cato.

"Here, Cato, take this," bubbles Glimmer. She offers him her silver bow and arrows, but he pushes them away. "I'll do fine with my sword."

He starts to climb the tree, but he's too heavy. He makes it only a few meters before a branch splinters under his foot and he comes crashing to the ground. For a second, he lies still, and I have a fleeting moment of paralyzing fear that I've lost him, before he leaps to his feet and unleashes a string of curses.

"I'll try!" Says Glimmer, and she scampers up the tree until I hear a branch crack under her foot. She stops climbing and aims an arrow at Katniss. If she had been a good shot she could have hit Katniss, but unfortunately she's Glimmer so the arrow lodged in the bark a few feet from Katniss's hand. Glimmer curses and moves back down the tree as Katniss grabs the arrow and wiggles it tauntingly above us. Marvel shakes his fist and spews every dirty word I've ever heard—plus a few more—at her.

We move into a huddle and try to decide on what to do. Marvel, Cato and Glimmer want to do something rash and violent (Marvel suggests chopping down the tree), but I think that's just because she made them look foolish. Twilight is falling and there's not much we can do in the pitch black. I'm about to point this out when Peeta speaks up: "Let's just leave her. She's got to come down sometime, right? We can wait until morning."

A reluctant murmur of consent is heard and we settle down for the night. Marvel and Cato are whispering away, probably plotting how to take her down at the crack of dawn. The anthem plays and the sky says no deaths. I want to join the others in their conversation, but fatigue overcomes me and I slip into a dreamless sleep.

Chaos wakes me the next morning. Chaos and a stinging pain in my neck. I jerk out of bed to see Glimmer's body on the ground next to me, Marvel and Peeta running away, and Cato dashing towards me. Another sting on my leg and another on my wrist make me woozy, and when Cato pulls me up, I nearly black out. "Run!" His distorted voice cuts through the fog surrounding my brain. All I want to do is collapse on the ground and go to sleep. Vaguely I feel another sting on my leg. Or maybe it's the same one as before…I can't tell anymore. I seem to be looking at the trees through a fisheye lens, and when someone gives me a tiny push on the back, the ground comes rushing at me much too fast. I close my eyes and brace myself for the impact, but it never comes.

I feel a very painful sting on my hand and then my body being jerked around. I can barely keep my eyes open, but when I close them, I see terrible things. So I force my eyelids up and see trees rushing past. A sudden burst of sunlight here and there makes me cringe, and when we emerge from the cover of the forest the light is too much to bear. I shut my eyes.

I crash to the ground. Every one of my bones seems to shake violently, and I roll over and wretch. When I look up, all I can see is a blinding white light. It's quickly overcome by blackness.

I'm in my house back home. Dim light seeps through the kitchen window. I call out to my mother but no one answers. I walk into the living room to find my parents hung from the ceiling fan.

I'm in my house back home. Dim light seeps through the kitchen window. I call out to my mother but no one answers. In the living room are their dead bodies, shot in the head.

I'm in my house back home. Dim light seeps through the kitchen window. I call out to my mother but no one answers. On the living room floor lie their bloody bodies, beaten to death.

I relive this over and over. My heart is always light in the kitchen. I never know the horror behind the wall. And then in the living room…I'm scared, but then sad. Never surprised.

I see my parents being brutally murdered, screaming out my name. I stand inches away, unable to move, to help them. And that's the scenario. I see them putting guns to their heads and ending their own lives, telling me it's all my fault. That they hate me, that I never lived up to even their lowest expectations.

Then I see Cato's face. I think I've woken up. I think he's here to comfort me. But no—he laughs evilly and slaps me across the face. I see him kill my parents; hear him tell me he never loved me. I see his true emotions at every point in our romance—when he first kissed me, he was disgusted. He laughed at me after he told me his father killed my parents. He rolled his eyes when I believed him about protecting me in the Games. And worst of all, his relief when he left me.

All the scenes, all the words, have a surreal edge to them. I can almost, barely tell I'm dreaming, but I can never open my eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

Sunlight crashes through my eyelids all at once. I squeeze my eyes shut and moan inwardly. Time for another onslaught of nightmares—what will it be this time? My parents dying gruesomely at their own hands? Cato making fun of me?

Someone shakes my arm and I open my eyes the tiniest bit. The sunlight is too much for me. But something about it…it's real. I breathe a sigh of relief. _It's over._

Another shake on my arm wakes me up entirely. I look up into a pair of electric blue eyes and immediately know I'm safe.

Relief floods Cato's face. "Thank god, Clove," he murmurs, pulling me into a hug. "Thank god, thank god. Thank god."

I try to laugh but my voice doesn't seem to be working. That's the first sign that I've been out for more than a few hours. Cato pulls away and I see the troubled look on his face, an expression I didn't know his features were capable of forming. "Are you alright?"

I nod, and then the hunger hits me. Pain in my stomach stronger than anything I've felt before. I moan and Cato grabs me again. "Are you okay?" He says it frantically, and in his eyes I can see that he really cares. If he wanted me dead, he could have left me in the woods after…whatever it was that happened. I open my mouth to ask, but cannon fire cuts me off.

Cato jerks his head around. "Marvel," he mutters. "Must be the cripple from Ten."

I close my eyes. The hunger pain seems to be getting worse by the second, but I'm too weak to do anything about it. _This must be what starving to death feels like,_ I think. I moan again and clutch at my stomach. Cato turns back to me and his eyes widen. "Oh yeah! You must be starving!" He grabs something off the ground beside him and stuffs it into my mouth. It's stale bread, and it's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted.

Cato lies down next to me and rests his hands behind his head. "You scared me, Clove," he says. "You were out for three days. Marvel couldn't understand why I didn't just leave you to die. But Clove…" his voice catches and he turns to look at me. "I knew you'd come back. I knew you were tough enough." His finger trails down my cheek and my lips turn up into a smile without my consent. We stay like that for a while, content, more content than one should be in the Hunger Games.

Cato eventually stands up and offers me a hand. When I grab it, a pain shoots up my arm and I give a little yelp. I pull my hand away.

"What?" Cato asks, worry in his eyes. I look at my palm and see an angry red welt. I examine my leg and my arm and see matching ones, and I feel another on my neck. Cato sighs. "Oh, yeah. The jacker stings."

"What?" My voice is scratchy and I realize this is the first time I've spoken since I woke up. Cato sits back down beside me. "Well…you know about tracker jackers, right?" I shake my head. "Oh. Well, they're stupid wasps that the Capitol created to fight the enemy in war. And, as usual, when the war was over, they didn't bother getting rid of the nests, so they left them for us to deal with."

I nod. Cato studies my face before he continues. "They're not normal wasps. They chase and kill anyone who messes with their hive."

I'm starting to get a picture, and I don't like it. "So Katniss dropped the nest on us, and we got stung. And…Glimmer…"

Cato nods solemnly. "She didn't have a chance. But somehow you survived. I mean, you're so small. Any normal person your size, with four stings…you should have died."

I fiddle with a blade of grass. "Did you dream?"

I drop the grass and look at Cato. I don't say anything, but it all must be obvious in my eyes because he wraps his arms around me and holds me tight. "It wasn't real, Clove," he murmurs into my hair. "Whatever you saw, it wasn't real."

I want to believe him. I promise I really do. I want to bury my face in his neck and hide from everything, cry into his shirt, let him hold me. But a little voice in the back of my mind tells me that I can't.

"Cato?" I mutter. "Mmm," he says in response.

"You're not doing a very good job of letting me go." I say it so it's barely audible, but Cato must hear me because he pulls away. I see the same sadness in his eyes as before and it breaks my heart.

He nods, more to himself than to me. "I know, Clove."

And then he kisses me. He presses his body against mine and folds his arms around my waist. I feel his lips part and I do the same. His tongue skates across my teeth and I wrap my arms around his neck, giving a little moan. It seems to go on forever, but eventually he pulls away. His face is inches away from mine. Breathing heavily, I smile weakly at him. "I can't say goodbye either," I murmur, kissing him on the lips one more time. And I mean it. If I'm going to die, I want to spend my last days with Cato.

He pulls me to my feet without warning and I nearly pass out. Cato steadies me and gives me more bread, which I scarf down gratefully. But he's focusing on something else. Across the campsite, Marvel has come back and he's looking too. I follow their gaze to the forest and see a ribbon of smoke rising from the trees. Marvel dashes over to us, and I see a big sting under his left eye. "Look who decided to join us," he says, shooting me a disdainful look. I roll my eyes. He turns back to Cato. "Let's move. And leave her here. She's still weak from the tracker jacker poison and she can help worthless Segrin keep on eye on the junk." He hooks a thumb towards the pile of supplies.

"No way!" I burst out, before Cato can respond. Something about the fire doesn't sit right with me. (Why would someone start a fire in the middle of the day?) I half-think it's a trap, but I can't think of any reason why a tribute would draw us towards him.

Cato looks troubled. I can tell he doesn't want me to go, but this time he can't have his way. I grab my jacket with the knives inside and pull it on. "Coming?" I say to Marvel and Cato. They glance at each other before grabbing a spear and a sword. We're armed for battle.

My suspicions grow stronger when we reach the fire and there's no one there. Cato and Marvel can feel it too. And when I look up and see another spiral of smoke, I know something's wrong. "Guys," I say, pointing to the new fire. "This is a trap."

Just then I hear a distant boom, not a cannon. We all look at each other for a split second, the same thought going through our minds, before dashing back towards camp.

Our worst fears are confirmed. The pile of supplies—everything we had—has transformed into smoking rubble. Cato absolutely _explodes._ He pounds the ground with his fists, yells every obscenity in the book, and rips out his hair. Then he channels his rage toward poor Segrin and breaks his neck with barely a flick of the wrist. The cannon fires and he roars at the sky, kicking at the charred remains.

I slowly approach him and put my hand on his shoulder. He whips his head around, and the fury in his eyes terrifies me. But as he registers my face, the blue in his eyes fades slightly, back to their regular brilliance instead of the burning rage that was there two seconds ago. "Clove," he says softly, his breathing labored. "Sorry, I…"

He trails off and I nod. "It's okay."

Marvel pops up between us and rolls his eyes. "Whatever. We'll be fine. In fact, whoever got blown to bits by destroying our stuff just gave us a leg up."

Cato kicks a charred wooden bucket and it crumbles to ashes. He curses under his breath. "Fine. Let them pick up the kid." He jerks his head towards Segrin's body and storms off across the lake. Marvel and I follow. Trudging through what would have been our sustenance for the rest of the Games, I wonder what we're going to do. I don't know how to hunt and I doubt Cato or Marvel does either.

_But the other tributes do,_ I think. This doesn't exactly seem like the best time to bring it up, but I realize that the tributes from the outer districts know how to rough it. Cato and Marvel have been pampered their entire lives. I might know how to be hungry, but I don't know how to hunt, and that's going to be a necessary skill if we're going to stay alive for much longer.

The three of us sit in a circle. Marvel and Cato murmur attack plans to each other, but I'm too exhausted to do anything. The sky grows darker and the anthem plays. They show the face of the District Ten boy Marvel got this morning, and then Segrin. I sit up to see who blew up our supplies—but the sky goes dark.

"What!?" Roars Marvel. "How could this happen? How did they do it?"

I glance at Cato, and I know we're both thinking the same thing: Katniss. Peeta's apparently incapacitated, Rue's too little, and this in-your-face offense thing doesn't seem like the Thresh's or the District Five redhead's style.

Marvel throws some stones in the lake before lighting a torch. "Come on," he says, his tone dangerously calm. Cato hands me a pair of night-vision goggles, and when I put them on, it looks like daytime again. This is the kind of thing I would've marveled about, but when you have the love of your life on one side and a homicidal maniac on the other, I guess things kind of lose their novelty.

We head into the woods. In the torchlight, I can see the grim determination on Marvel's face: Someone will pay.

**Omg...guys...Can you forgive me? I'm SO SORRY it took so long! I was so busy during the first week of school it wasn't even funny. And I know this chapter isn't exactly primo...but I hope you enjoy it. Zellie XOXO**


End file.
